


The Red Dogs and the Phoenix

by Davechicken, Penumbris (Davechicken), Penumbris (Shadow_Side), Shadow_Side



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 209,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Penumbris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Side/pseuds/Penumbris, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Side/pseuds/Shadow_Side
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Ben didn't die? Thus begins a different journey still fifteen years in the making; a journey that will see emotional brotherhood and actual brotherhood put to the ultimate test – a journey that could lead the world back to the light… or condemn it to the dark.</p><p>In Chapter One, Miles and Bass set out on a long walk to find Ben – a walk that will lead them to some long-overdue discoveries about themselves, and some unwelcome truths about what the world can become when the lights go out.</p><p>Warnings: Graphic sex, graphic violence, D/s, knifeplay, bloodplay, gunplay, and a lot of bad language (there are 566 separate variants on the word 'fuck' in Chapter One alone, and Chapter One is the polite chapter!) Also the boys are very much not experienced BDSM lifestyle people. Please do not mistake characters' ignorance for author ignorance. If we were there we would smack them around the head. Hard. And then watch.</p><p>Contains: Quoted snippets from the song 'Kashmir' by Led Zeppelin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1A - Baby, When The Lights Go Out

_Baby, when the lights go out,_  
 _I hear you calling, I hear you calling,_  
 _Baby, when the lights go out,_  
 _I need you._

[David Guetta – 'Baby, When The Lights Go Out']

***

**SYLVANIA ESTATES, WISCONSIN, THE MONROE REPUBLIC**

**FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

Ben Matheson stands in the doorway of his house, and smiles.

It's a pleasant morning. The sun is shining. Life ambles on, as it ever does. All is right with the world.

Slowly, he paces down the garden path, into the centre of their little village. He's lived here for… quite some time, now. Been able to just stop, and let his life happen, rather than… anything else.

At the edge of the square, he pauses. Looks out. Close by, he can see his best friend, Aaron Pittman, trying to teach the village children about the world that was. And behind the house, he's sure that Maggie… his lover… will be back tending her herb garden.

Ben lifts his head, sunlight playing over his face, closing his eyes for just a moment. Perfect.

Never think this. The universe listens. And the universe… has a long memory.

All of a sudden, the serenity of the morning is shattered by the sound of footsteps. Footsteps… marching in unison, and accompanied by the undeniable clop of horses' hooves. Ben feels his stomach lurch, as if all the light has suddenly dropped out of the world, never to return.

_No. No! Not now. Not after so long..!_

Moving as fast as he can, he darts over to Aaron, who is on his feet – reacting, like everyone else, to what's going on.

"Aaron!" Ben hisses, urgently. "Aaron, come here, quick!"

Aaron tells the kids to run on home to their parents, waiting until they've all moved before he goes over to Ben. "What's wrong?" he asks. He knows the Militia are coming, and that they aren't expected… but it's not like he's exactly surprised.

"Aaron, listen to me," Ben says, grabbing hold of his arm. "There's no reason for them to be here. Not now. Which means…"

He can't say it. Not out loud. Partly because he can't engage with it, and partly on the off-chance that he's mistaken. But he doesn't think he is.

"Look… Aaron, if something happens to me… if anything happens to me, I need you to look after this…"

And Ben pulls something from his pocket – something he's never without. It's a silver pendant, shaped like a wide teardrop, carved with arcing lines. The thought of giving it up – even to Aaron – makes Ben's blood go cold, but… he has to. The alternatives don't bear thinking about.

"Take it," he urges. "Keep it hidden. Don't let _anyone_ know you have it, no matter what. And if… if something happens… you need to take it to a woman named Grace Beaumont. She lives in Grant Park, south of Chicago. She… she's a friend. An old friend."

"What… Ben… what is this? What do you mean, if something happens? What's going on?" Aaron stares at his friend, confused. He's never seen Ben so upset or worried. Ever. The man is normally unflappable.

"Trust me, _please_ ," Ben implores, as he presses the pendant into Aaron's hand. "Don't say anything. No matter what happens… don't say anything."

_Look after my kids_ , he wants to add, but can't quite. The thought that it might be necessary is so horrifying he can't engage with it.

He grips Aaron's arm one last time and turns, walking back into the centre of the square… where a contingent of Militia soldiers has filed in. Quite a number of them, too – more than would normally turn up if they were just after supplies again. They seem to dominate whatever space they take up, weapons at the ready, flag rippling in the breeze, depicting the symbol that… well. That Ben has known for longer than most.

Other people are backing away. This is sensible. Ben… knows he has to do otherwise. Trying to keep his face as calm and impassive as he can, he walks a little closer. At the centre of the group, the only man on horseback looks down at him. He's clearly the squad's leader, although Ben can't work out his rank. Not until he speaks.

"I'm Captain Tom Neville, of the Monroe Militia. Is there a Ben Matheson here?"

And all Ben's worst fears come true. "…Why are you asking?"

Neville gives him a cold, imperious look. "Do not try my patience. I have been on this damned road for a _year_ , trekking through godforsaken backwater after godforsaken backwater, away from my home and my _wife_. Now unless you would like me to conscript _your_ little backwater in its entirety, I suggest you answer my question: _is there a Ben Matheson here_?"

Deep breath. Ben knows he could lie… but if he gets caught out, he won't be the only one paying the price. And he can't let anyone else suffer because of this. He's done enough.

"…You're talking to him," he says, more than aware he could be signing his own death sentence. Or worse. "What's this about?"

Aaron is watching from as far away as he can, not liking this. Why are they asking for Ben by name? Why do they want him? The pendant in his pocket feels heavy, suddenly.

Danny hears something happening outside. He looks down at the crossbow. Charlie's crossbow. And he hesitates for a fraction of a second before he picks it up, standing in the doorway. Trying to count how many men there are… and why is his dad walking up to them?

Neville looks Ben up and down. "You're not what I expected," he says, but he doesn't explain why – and Ben doesn't ask. Because he suspects he knows the answer. "Well. By the personal order of General Sebastian Monroe himself, I am hereby instructed to place you under arrest and take you into custody, for transport back to Philadelphia. Surrender now… and we can do this the easy way. Make trouble… and I promise you, _everyone_ here will suffer the consequences."

He looks around at the other villagers, all of them trying to stay back and – where possible – out of sight. It is not a nice look.

"You don't have to do this," Ben says, softly. Desperately. "Please."

Neville's expression grows even colder. "Do you think I'm giving you a choice?" he says, voice almost a growl.

Which is when Danny lifts up the crossbow, and – willing his hands not to shake – points it straight at Neville. "You leave my dad alone," he says. "He's not coming with you."

Ben hears his son's voice and turns in horror. "Danny!" he says. "Danny, it's OK, put the crossbow down. Just… just let them take me. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

And though he's still looking at Danny as he says this last part, it's clearly meant for Neville. And it's clearly necessary, because behind him, he hears the unmistakeable cock of a gun.

"You should listen to your father, boy," Neville says, pointing his sidearm at Danny. "What exactly do you think you can do with that against an entire Militia squad?"

"I only need to take down one person," Danny says, staring at Neville. "Let my dad go."

The sound of someone moving makes him jump, and he turns to shoot at them, but his foot slips slightly and the crossbow bolt goes sailing inches past one of the soldiers' heads. And all hell breaks loose.

Neville fires at Ben, and for a second… Ben is sure that's it. The end. He can feel the moment, the finality. Can feel the whole world unfolding from this point; all the pieces cascading down into place, bought with his blood.

But no. He feels the bullet whip past his shoulder. A couple of inches to the right… and it might all have been over. There's a crack behind him as the bullet smashes into something wooden, but Ben doesn't have a chance to process that, too, because of the flurry of movement in front of him.

The solider who was almost hit with the crossbow bolt swears and fires his own gun. A couple of bullets fly past Danny – close enough that Ben's heart nearly stops – and the third hits someone nearby; one of Ben's neighbours, who goes down with a little gasp of shock. Around the square, all of the soldiers start pointing their guns at people, at least two or three more firing warning shots of their own, though not to kill. Not yet.

At the same time, Neville fires again, off to the side, taking down two more villagers with deliberate malice before he points his gun at Ben, shouting for calm.

"Nobody move!" he yells. "The next person who tries anything gets a bullet between the eyes."

"Don't, please," Ben says, desperately, holding up his hands. "Everyone just stay calm! This doesn't have to get any worse!"

But it does. "Take him," Neville orders his men. "The boy too. Take them both."

"No!" Danny yells, even as someone wrestles the unprimed crossbow from him, even as he is panicking and trying to run over to his dad. "No!"

But then someone cracks him around the head with something metal and heavy, and he staggers to one knee. The blow winds him, and he's wheezing, grabbing at his chest and trying not to panic. And not doing too good a job of it, because then his arms are up behind his back and he's flailing pathetically as they cuff him.

"Danny!" Ben cries in horror, trying to get to his son, but in seconds he too is grabbed by a pair of soldiers and dragged to the ground. They slam him face-down, seizing his wrists and cuffing him too, before yanking him up onto his knees.

Neville moves in closer, looking down at the pair of them from atop his horse. "You are both under arrest for acts contrary to the ideals of the Monroe Republic… and for the attempted murder of a loyal Militia soldier. Be thankful I need you alive… because otherwise, believe me, I would execute you both right now."

He looks to his men. "Get them up. We're leaving."

"…'m…'m'okay… dad…" Danny gasps, even though his chest feels like someone's stamped all over it, and it's all going tight and dark. "…okay…"

He doesn't have any fight left in him when they get him up to his feet, using all of his wherewithal to keep from passing out. They shove him into the back of a cart, face first. He crawls a few steps in and rolls over to his side, eyes closed and focussing on getting air in. Even though it's becoming increasingly difficult.

"Don't hurt him!" Ben pleads, as he's yanked to his feet and dragged over to the same cart, to be flung in alongside his son. The terror is overwhelming but it's a different hue, now. When he was the only one in danger… he could be scared for himself. Understandably scared for himself. But now… all his can think about is Danny.

"Let this be a lesson to all of you," Neville says, staring around at the frightened faces of the villagers. "The Monroe Republic does not abide treason and sedition. Now, please… return to your lives."

This from a man who has shot at least two of them dead. And abducted two others.

No one dares raise a hand. Or say anything. Everyone just stands and waits for them to leave – except for the relatives of the two bleeding out on the ground. They go to them, but won't look Neville in the eye.

From his hiding spot, Aaron runs his hands through his hair, fighting the rising panic. Ben! Ben and Danny! And the Militia have them… meaning Charlie and Maggie are going to be all alone. And he has this necklace and a name and location. For the first time in a long, long time, Aaron is truly worried.

Danny inches over to his dad, wanting at least to be close to him. He knows there's nothing they can do to stop the attack, but it always feels better if someone's looking after him. His dad, Charlie, or Maggie. All of them look out for him.

"It's going to be OK," Ben whispers, even though… he very much suspects it isn't. "I'm here. You're not alone." And that… that is their only blessing. Even if it might well turn into a curse before long.

The Militia move out, turning back to the road, and in a few moments… they're gone.

A terrible silence falls over the village, broken only by the gasps of the dying and the sobs of their loved ones – and then shattered as someone comes crashing through the trees, between the houses and down into the square. An agitated blur of movement, eyes frantically searching the scene for answers.

Ben's daughter. Charlie Matheson.

She spots Aaron standing in the square, clearly upset, and runs over to him. "Aaron! Aaron, what happened?"

"Charlie… Charlie promise me you'll hear me out…" Aaron says, grabbing her by the forearms to make sure she stays.

Charlie stares at him, eyes wide with growing horror. Knowing that something is very wrong – she's known it since the moment she heard the gunshots – and hating that she doesn't know what it is.

"…All right," she agrees, nodding. "Now tell me."

"Militia came. They… they took your dad and your brother… but don't go after them! Charlie… they had guns… they came for him by name… this isn't… this is really bad," Aaron says, knowing as he does that he's not really being reassuring. "But he knew. Your dad. He knew and he came to me before they got here. He told me I had to go to someone, if anything happened. Charlie… he told me what to do…"

"What?!" Charlie cries, trying to pull away from Aaron. "No! No… I have to go after them. Have to get them back. I can't just let those soldiers take them, I…"

She sags a little, looking around. She and what army? There's no one here who could help her do something like this. No one. How is she supposed to get her family back all on her own?

Aaron won't let go of her. He knows what Ben was asking, when he gave him the pendant. Knows that Ben would want him to keep Charlie safe. And he owes Ben a lot. Not to mention he thinks of Ben's kids as his own niece and nephew. "Charlie… Charlie… they have guns. And horses. And a whole army. What do we have? Nothing… but he wouldn't tell me to go see this Grace woman without good reason to. Think about this for a minute. Maybe she can help us get them back?"

Charlie knows, through the haze, that Aaron is talking sense. Even though… even though her blood is burning with the strangest need to… to do something. Anything. Anything to get Danny back. And their Dad.

"I… I… OK, OK," she says, trying to calm down. "If my Dad really said that… he must have had a reason. Something. Anything? We have to go. Aaron, we have to go right now…"

"We have to make sure we've got everything we need, first, Charlie. I mean, have you even ever left Sylvania since you were a kid? It's not gonna be like a little hunting party. Travelling for a long time… it's tough," Aaron says, trying to fight back the memories that dredges up. The… pain.

"…no, not really," Charlie has to admit. "But I don't have a choice. I have to do this. I have to."

She wonders what the little flicker in Aaron's voice means, but chooses not to ask. Not now.

"And I… wait. What do you mean, 'we'?"

"Charlie… your dad told me to go to Grace. Me. And… I owe him that much. I know you aren't going to stay behind so… we're just going to have to go together."

"Make that three of us." Maggie slides around behind the building. Standing a little back from them. She looks… shaken and pale. But determined. "Wherever you go, Charlie, I'm going too."

Charlie folds her arms and stares. She wants to say no. Wants to refuse to let Maggie come along, because Maggie is not her Mom, and this shouldn't be about her, and… and…

But Charlie can't do this alone. She knows it. So… she just sighs. "Fine. Then pack up. We need to get going."

_I can't lose them. They're all I've got_.

Maggie matches Charlie's stare. She isn't backing down. Not on this. And when Charlie agrees, she inwardly sighs in relief, but it barely shows on her face.

"Aaron, if we finish first we will come to your place. Otherwise come to ours. We need to pack smart for this, and we need to pack enough for the journey there _and_ back if need be," Maggie says.

"Sure… sure. I still have my tent and stuff. I'll go get it. It's been a while but… yeah." Aaron glances from one woman to the other. This… well. This is going to be interesting. He just hopes he doesn't fuck it up this time.

***

**CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, THE MONROE REPUBLIC**

Miles Matheson is having a very bad day.

If truth be told, he rarely has _good_ days. A good day in his world currently constitutes one that ends in someone else getting into a bar fight, so he has carte blanche to beat them up and throw them out. It gives him something to do; something beyond endless mundanity and constant attempts to brew his own whisky. (Which never works. He's gotten as far as concocting some variant on Bourbon but it's pretty hideous. Doesn't stop him drinking a damn lot of it, though).

But even by those standards, today is a _bad_ day. It all goes wrong mid-morning, when he heads out of the bar and onto the busy streets of Chicago. He has a few errands to run, and it's helpful for him to actually make himself go out during the day – because if he doesn't, people will think he's gone nocturnal again. (That had not been a fun few months).

The sun is bright, but it doesn't hurt all that much – last night having been pretty mild, by his standards – and all seems to be as well as it ever is until Miles spots the first of the posters, which have been plastered onto the walls of buildings left, right and centre, presumably overnight. He only has to catch a couple of words and he's moving closer, reading the entire thing with building dread.

_"INFORMATION SOUGHT_

_Let it be known amongst all citizens of the Monroe Republic that a reward will be paid in gold to any person providing further information on two recently-apprehended fugitives: BENJAMIN and DANIEL MATHESON, of Sylvania Estates._

_Both are being transported forthwith to Philadelphia to face justice for their activities against the state and counter to the values and ideals for which the Monroe Republic stands._

_Any person able to provide additional information on the interests or associates of the above-named should contact their local Militia commander, who will ensure they are appropriately rewarded with due haste._

_Long Live the Monroe Republic!"_

Miles stares. And stares. And then ducks down the nearest side-alley, rocking back against the wall and trying to stop his mind from racing.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck!_

Ben. The Militia have Ben. And one of his kids, but it's Ben who Miles is worried about. How they found him… he doesn't know. Maybe some kind of intel. Maybe brute luck. It doesn't matter. They have him, and they're taking him to Philadelphia. To… to Bass. Bass, who has every reason to… to…

_Fuck_.

Miles wanders back home, mind in a haze. What the fuck is he supposed to do? There's no fucking way those posters are a request for information. Not really. They're a taunt. A big, arms-wide-open taunt, aimed squarely at him.

…or they're a trick. Once he takes a deep breath, he realises that it could be a lie, a trap. He doesn't think it is – not least because the posters state Ben's last known address (which Miles knows is right), but it's always possible that Ben got away just in time and that Bass is now trying this little ploy to make up for having lost the man _again_.

But. Even if that's the case… Miles can't take the risk. And though he can always hope that it is one big lie… he doesn't think it is. His gut tells him it's real. That the Militia have Ben – and Danny – and that they're taking them to Philly.

To Bass.

Fuck.

Miles stalks back into the Grand, which is already open for the day, giving a nod to Evan – the head doorman-cum-bouncer-cum-muscle – who is at his usual station, chatting up a woman wearing a ridiculously short skirt.

"Hey, Rick," Evan calls over. Rick – Richard Bachman – is the name Miles has been going by since he came here. Very few people outside the Militia know his face, but pretty much everyone knows his name, so it was just safer to pick an alias.

He picked that one on a whim, and when put on the spot. Still, in four years, no one has got the joke, and it's still working.

"…Hey," Miles manages, though he doesn't stop to chat, stalking straight through to the rear of the bar, and out into his private rooms. Once inside, he slams the door and leans back on it, trying to get his mind to stop racing.

This is the nightmare scenario – literally, in fact, because he's dreamt it more than a few times. The only person in the world who Miles would come out of hiding for is Ben… and Ben is in trouble.

Probably. Yes, he can't be sure. But he has to act as though it's true. Because in all likelihood… it is.

Fuck.

How did it come to this? How is it possible that the last fucking remnants of his miserable life are about to come crashing spectacularly down? He turns and slams his left hand hard into the wall. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to send pain chasing through his whole arm… but it's just pain.

Except… except it makes his shoulder sting more than a little, and that… oh fuck, that does not help at all…

He stalks deeper into the room, snatching up a half-finished bottle of the hideous homebrew Bourbon and downing a long mouthful. Fuck. Fuck. What is he going to do? What _can_ he do..?

How did it come to this? Miles leans on the table he's stopped near, dropping his head and closing his eyes. The balance inside – as much as it is ever in balance – has been completely destroyed, and the flashes of memory are starting to flare up.

Moonlight on metal. The echo of hooves. The thunder of battle. Screams of anguish. Screams of joy. Cries of regret. The cock of a gun…

Miles slams his hand down on the table.

It's over. It's so over. He's completely fucked.

How did it come to this?

The memories race through his mind, further and further back… and all of a sudden, he knows where it all started. Where it all _really_ started…

Seventeen years ago. Whilst he and Bass were stationed in Indianapolis. Just a few weeks before they were sent to Parris Island. He remembers the day – the night – all too well.

The night he saved his best friend's life… and discovered something that would change _everything_.

***

**JASPER, INDIANA, THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA**

**TWO YEARS BEFORE THE BLACKOUT**

Sometimes, the best thing in life is a little distraction.

Right now, a large distraction might be better. A large distraction and perhaps a larger quantity of alcohol. And no more talking about the gun.

"Come on," Miles says, grabbing hold of Bass' arm and dragging it round his own shoulder. "Let's get you out of here."

He stands, pulling the other man to his feet, free arm going around his waist for support, before starting to walk them both towards the car. Towards the car and away from the graveside.

He wants to help – certainly more so than he would for anyone else. But he knows he can't do it here.

"Yeah… out of here…" Bass echoes. He lets himself be pulled upright without resisting, but he isn't exactly helping much either. He holds on quite tightly, though, because the warmth pressed down one side is a stark contrast to the cold of the grass which wound through him. The cold of the graves. The cold where his sisters…

Drunkenly, he pushes his head into Miles' neck, breathing noisily and raspily and cheap whisky-ly. He must reek of it. And in front of anyone else, he would be mortified.

"I'm sorry…" he starts to say, because he has to, and because the words are broiling in his gut, choking him in the back of his throat.

"Don't," Miles tells him, clearly affected. "You don't have to."

And he means it. Were it anyone else… well, if truth be told, he'd probably be slapping them on the back and telling them to pull themself together. That death was inevitable and you just had to roll with it. Roll with it, or roll under it.

Only, it isn't anyone else, and Miles isn't sure he's ever seen Bass look so upset, and it… _hurts_ , goddamn it. Hurts in a way he's not quite sure how to react to.

He gets the man to the car, propping him up against it whilst he yanks the door open.

"No… I mean I'm sorry I texted you. I know you hate texts. But I kind of thought maybe if you didn't read it that… well. Anyway. I'm glad you did."

It was a coward way of deciding. A Russian Roulette for the smartphone era. And that embarrasses him more than even asking his best friend to come save him.

Bass feels like he's some sort of useless brat, or maybe a cheap drunk whore, manhandled to a ride to be driven god knows where. He doesn't like that. Doesn't like feeling out of control. It makes a wave of panic rise up again – or is that still the alcohol? – and he has to grab onto the roof of the car until it passes. His knees want to go. He wants to go. Doesn't want to admit to this, doesn't want… doesn't want anyone else to see him weak. What if they see him back at the base? Sure he's been wrecked before. They call those 'off duty nights'. And there's even been soul-searching and photos of women and puppies and women and puppies passed around when on a tour. But this… this is something else. Something shameful.

"I… I don't know if I can…"

Miles is back in front of him in a second, still holding him up. "You have to," he says, trying to balance firm and utterly understanding at the same time and realising he probably isn't doing a very good job of either. "I'm not leaving you here, Bass. You wouldn't have texted if you didn't want me around."

He really does hate the damn things. No one ever really talks anymore, they just reduce everything down to a handful of misspelt words and ridiculous faces made from symbols once meant for a better purpose. And now he's internally waxing lyrical about text messages. He really is too sober for this, so the sooner they get back to base, the better. Responsible Marines don't drive drunk… except that one time in Baghdad, but that doesn't count.

_Pull yourself together_ , he wants to say, but can't. Can't because he can see the whole scene reversed, see himself losing it too if something happened to his family.

To Ben. Losing it… or shutting off the emotion completely. But that's not him anymore. Not – ironically enough – after Baghdad.

"Come on," he says again. "Get in the car. I'm taking you h– back to base."

_Home_. Don't call a military base home. Home is where you go when you're not there. Except, after long enough… it really isn't.

Bass smiles but it's a smile that's a mask of pain and grief, and it wobbles like his legs do and looks more horrifying than reassuring. "Don't… don't let anyone see me," he asks. Pleads. Big, hurt blue eyes blinking back on the tears he couldn't quite get out. No matter how much he stared at the soil. The sad flowers withering into mulch.

He folds up into the seat, shrinking down with his legs as far into the footwell as they will go. Tucking in so maybe no one will see him. Fingernails digging bloody crescents into his palms and not even flinching.

"Not a soul," Miles promises. It's not like they've never snuck around on base before. And he knows all the best places. Too much practice will do that to a man.

Wise not to linger. Or anything close. He knocks the door shut and hurries around to the driver's side. It's late. He can safely put his foot down and get them back before long. The sooner he's got Bass back in a controlled environment, the better.

The engine roars into life, and they're off before there's room for argument. Or anything worse.

Bass doesn't have the gun any more, so he can't run his fingers over it. Instead the closest thing is that damn cell phone, and he slides his index finger over the buttons and the tiny, tiny screen. Wonders what it would have been like twenty years ago. Wonders if he'd just have blown his brains out because he couldn't – wouldn't – admit aloud what he was planning to do. Not to anyone. Not even Miles. Miles who knows… everything. Who knew the first time Bass woke up from a dirty dream. Who knew the first time Bass cheated on a test and how he felt awful after until he flunked it anyway because it was math and Miles sucks at math.

He closes his eyes and sits back, letting the streetlights dance in muted patterns behind his eyelids. "Take me home," he asks, quietly. His left hand reaching… and then pulling back.

Home.

Miles knows that's the crux of it, really. Home will always be where Bass is.

"I am," he promises, softly. "It won't be long."

Especially not at the rate he's gunning it now. He just has to hope none of the traffic cops are feeling adventurous tonight, because much as Scary Marine Face can be remarkably effective, this really isn't the time.

"Let's listen to something other than my bitching," Bass decides, because he can't stand another fucking minute of hearing his own breathing. He leans forward and pushes the cassette back in. He hopes to fuck it's not something girly, but this is Miles he's talking about. Deciding to risk it, he cranks the volume to max and sits back again.

_Kashmir_.

Miles loves this one. And he's silently glad to have gotten this far through the album, because the earlier tracks… well. Maybe this is more appropriate.

_Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream…_

…Maybe too appropriate. But it's cranked, and you can't not enjoy a song like this when it's cranked.

Thankfully, the drive back is uneventful, if loud. When they get back to base, Miles waves his own ID at the checkpoint guard, followed by a string of excuses in lieu of Bass' ID. Which the man never seems to have and still always gets away with it.

Once they're in, he parks the car, drags Bass out of it, and half-walks, half-carries the man out to the edge of the vehicle lot. It's far enough away from the main buildings of the base that they won't be bothered, but far enough in from the perimeter walls to avoid notice by the external guards.

Much as he's averse to leaving Bass anywhere on his own, it's better than dragging him into the base where they won't be able to avoid people. So he props him against a tank, tells him to stay put, and disappears for a couple of minutes.

When he gets back, he's got a bottle of whisky. Nothing like being prepared.

"Here," he says, waving the bottle at Bass. "If you're going to drink, might as well drink a decent single-malt. I am not having you getting wasted on that blended crap again."

"Blended crap mixes all the best thingies of multiple stuffs together to make it good," Bass replies, but the sound is somewhat muffled as he's progressed from sitting and staring at the sky to holding onto the business end of the tank and talking into the oversized barrel. His voice echoes pleasantly, deep and resounding, but it smells too much of oil and metal.

"And besides it's cheap."

Miles sighs. "Get down from there," he says, trying to drag the other man away from the business end of the tank. He's had quite enough of the thought of weapons barrels pointed at his best friend for one day.

"But it smells of hommmmmmmeeeee," Bass complains, and reluctantly lets himself be removed from the tank. He drops lithely like a cat. Or that's the plan. In reality he ends up draped all over Miles again and nearly spills all the liquor.

"It smells of YOU!" he insists, and then sits on the floor in a tangle of limbs and hair.

Miles drops down beside him and pats Bass a little pathetically on the back, not at all sure how to react to this. How are you _supposed_ to react to something like this?

He uncorks the bottle and takes a long swig straight from the neck. Glasses are for wimps. Then he pauses, stares at the bottle, and has another mouthful for good measure.

"You need help, my friend," he says, really not making any kind of effort to extricate himself from the other man. "Try some of this."

Bass leans in and opens his mouth pathetically, waiting to be given liquid. And when it is not forthcoming, he makes a sad little noise and peers up at him. "Miiiiiiles…"

Miles manages to hold out for about five seconds before his so-not-indulging-you face fades and he's pushing the bottle to Bass' lips, tipping him a good mouthful of the whisky.

"There. Now don't say I'm not helpful when it counts."

Bass tries to agree that he is helpful when it counts but he's too busy glugging copious amounts of whisky and eventually dribbling some. When the bottle leaves he wipes a sloppy hand over his lips to clean up. Then he coughs.

"Where have you been all my life?"

"Right here, you idiot," Miles replies, taking another long swig and then staring at the bottle as if daring it to argue. And then he decides maybe he should prove it, so he pushes an arm round Bass' shoulders again. "See? Not going anywhere."

"Promise? I mean… really promise?" There's a little too much desperation in that, so Bass laughs brokenly and reaches for the bottle again – even if it means leaning bodily over the other man to convince himself he's still there. "Why can't women be like you?" he asks, and then drinks enough in one go so that it feels like steam is coming out of his ears.

Miles can't help a laugh at that, apparently all too oblivious to the undertones that are creeping in. He waits for Bass to finish trying to drown himself in Scotch and then yanks the bottle back, drinking deeply once more. Several times. Bass is way too far in the lead but that doesn't mean Miles can't try to catch up.

Then he leans in closer. "It's the voice," he points out, right in Bass' ear, low and a little rough from the alcohol. "Chicks can't do the voice."

Said voice makes the hair on the back of Bass' neck prickle, and his hands start to burn. It's a good job he's not holding the bottle or he might drop it. Because… because… Miles. Warm, caring, supportive Miles. Miles who drives out in the middle of the night to save him from his demons. Miles with his hot, strong arms. With his clever, wicked tongue talking them back inside. With his evil bottle of delicious sins. Miles.

Bass chokes out a non-reply and suddenly grabs him in a vice-like hug, trying to hide under his arm, trying to just… be safe. Fuck but the man better stop talking soon. Bass isn't sure why he never really noticed that before, and now it's going to be there every fucking time the man opens his mouth and he can't talk because his voice is thin and reedy and stupid and not… fucking manly rocks of fire and lions growling and all that macho shit. No wonder Miles calls people instead of texting.

OK, that's a little… well, nice, really, if truth be told, though Miles wouldn't admit it out loud. He doesn't object, though, holding Bass in tighter, liking the feeling of him there… warm and alive and… safe. Yes. Here and safe. Not out in the darkness, alone with a gun.

Here.

"It's all right," Miles tells him, mostly thinking Bass is about to break down with grief again. "I've got you this time."

Bass tries to say something like 'good' or 'hooray' or 'too fucking straight' but it turns into another garbled noise. And something in his hindbrain just won't shut the hell up. No. Really. Shut up. It's grief. Isn't it one of the stages of grief? 1. Stare blankly at your Commanding Officer as he tells you. 2. Go to your barracks and punch a fist-sized bump into your locker. 3. Scream at someone who looks like they're lower rank than you. 4. Tell whoever asked if you were okay – chaplain maybe? – to go fuck themselves. 5. Buy as much cheap alcohol as you can. 6. Sneak out to the graveside to get piss-drunk, tell Voldemort to fuck _himself_. 7. Chicken out of killing yourself and text your best friend. 8. Get piss drunk with said best friend and realise that when he orders tomato soup he's actually saying 'You want to drop your trousers and let me ravish you'.

Maybe he should have skipped out some of the earlier steps. With shaking hands but damn fucking sure purpose he pushes the bottle away and grabs Miles' face. And kisses him. Hard, sloppy, and full of 'fuck me please because my world is ending and you're the only one who can fix it'. And then when he's done kissing him, he keeps a hold on his face. And does it a second time. Because. Fuck. That felt good.

Oh… fuck.

That should not feel so good. It really, really shouldn't. Some part of Miles' brain is ringing alarm bells left, right and centre but it takes rather a long time for them to filter through, which is more than enough time for _Bass_ to kiss him _twice_.

It's only when Bass pulls back the second time that Miles manages to scrape together enough coherence to respond. He puts a hand on the other man's chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath his fingertips, warm and real.

"Bass," he whispers, "we shouldn't…"

Bass pauses, but only because it's Miles. His hands are still holding Miles' face. He's nearly sitting in his goddamn lap and he's not even sure how he managed that. His heart is pounding like he's in the middle of a firefight and he's dancing the samba on the tightrope line between life and death. And he… he feels… he feels so fucking alive and he just wants to keep kissing him and Miles to tell him it's all gonna be okay and he doesn't even know really what he wants after that but it's something to do with sorting out his cock and more kisses and Miles and Miles and…

"…Miles?" he asks, sounding so utterly lost. He sort of processes there's a negative in there, but it's not making sense to him because he felt the way the man – (MAN, Bass, MAN) – reacted, and he knows it wasn't one sided and the man basically just whispered 'I want to have sex with you' in other words in his ear and promised they'd be together and…

Bass jumps back a mile. And suddenly isn't touching him _anywhere_. " _Fuck_ , I'm sorry man, I'm sorry I… I… fuck I'm just drunk just forget that oh fuck I didn't mean… shit…" He looks as white as a ghost.

This is… rather more of a reaction than Miles expected, and it takes him a little by surprise. Which is totally why, when Bass jumps back, Miles instinctively reaches for him. Surprise. Not anything else.

Not… Oh _fuck_ … and now he's never going to get the images out of his head, the thoughts that one little kiss (well, two technically, but he does suck at math) can tug from the shadows, like they've always been there.

Images. Images like pinning Bass to the ground right here, right now and… and…

…and whatever it is you do next when you're a guy and they're a guy and…

… _Fuck_ , he's got to stop thinking about it before he does something that gets them _both_ kicked out of the Marines.

"We can't," he whispers, totally not dealing with this right at all. "It's against regs…"

And there's still no sign of a 'because I don't want to.' Because he doesn't. Not want to.

Oh _fuck_.

"Ahaha," Bass laughs, in a totally this is so funny I forgot to laugh and instead sound like a donkey way. "Yeah I know I was just doing a field check on your reflexes. It was a joke. You know. How you like to whisper into girls' ears and suddenly they're all wet for you and panting and sitting on you and stuff, only I'm drunk and I think I forgot how to be funny because I'm probably still certifiable because of the stuff I won't tell a shrink in case they ground me and then I go even more crazy and you go off and leave me on some mission or something and die and I'm stuck in this base on my own fucking all the girls myself and you know I'll do it but it might mean I'm sore for a while… why don't you give me some more alcohol and we can talk about something like a ball game because I know people had to have played one recently…"

There's not a single breath in there. At all. He wonders how he managed to even come up with all that bullshit. Because it is. Bullshit. But his ego just can't take the rejection right now. So he gestures for the bottle instead.

Miles does not look convinced. At all. It's hard to look convinced when Bass is swinging so far the other way that they're both going to end up with mental whiplash and when his head is full of _thoughts_ and…

He takes a very, very long swig of the whisky, then waves it at Bass, offering it to him. "You really _are_ certifiable, you know that?" he manages, trying to sound normal, trying to sound fucking _normal_ when the world never will be again. "My reflexes are just fine."

"Yes, I saw that," Bass says, taking the bottle and making sure their fingers don't even touch. And drinking. And drinking. "I should stop trying to be funny. It's not really my thing." He wants to ask him to forget the whole night. Everything. All of it. Everything he's said. The gun. The kiss. It's the worst night of his goddamn life. He puts the bottle down and decides now is the time to try climbing up on the fucking tank. It's not high enough to throw himself off, but he has to be… moving. Moving.

"Do you think if I fall from this and hit my head I'll forget the last… year? Or do you think I'll just end up even more certifiable?" he asks, clumsily trying to mount it.

"Bass, get off the tank," Miles says, flatly. "Don't make me come up there."

This is not going well, and the problem is that Bass is so much more drunk than Miles is, and there's nothing quite like being around someone so much further gone to make you feel hellishly sober. And of all the things to be at this precise moment, Miles is pretty sure that 'sober' is right at the bottom of his list.

Bass ignores him. He listened to him, and look where that got him? Feeling even fucking worse. If he had the gun right now he might use… no. Clamp down on everything. Stop it. Stop feeling.

"I like it up here," he snaps, and somehow manages to straddle the turret. It's nice and cold between his legs, not that he's feeling anything but god-awful right down there now. He wonders if it'll ever work again. Maybe not. That would be just his luck. Accidentally go a bit gay and break it. Does that even happen?

"I'm gonna… I'm gonna have a fucking army of these like people used to have horses and I'm going to have a million choppers and we're going to find that fucking ass who killed my little girls and we're gonna carpet-bomb him and then I'm going to dance on his fucking grave and spit on it and then I'm going to set it on fire and spit on it again and then I'm going to play the loudest fuck-you song I can find and then I'm going to go home and…"

But he has no home. And the memory of it hits him fucking hard and he grabs the turret hard and starts crying his heart out. They're all dead. All of them. And he's just fucked over the last friend he had. The only home he had. "Don't fucking leave me don't I'll kill you if you leave me don't, Miles, fuck please don't I'm sorry just don't fucking leave me okay I can't take it I don't care about the Marines or anything I just you're the only one I have left and I can't fucking lose you because I got fucking drunk…"

Which means Miles is _definitely_ going up there. He clambers up on the damn tank so fast you'd think the ground was on fire or flooding with water or… something… and before he can let himself hesitate he's grabbed hold of Bass, dragging him off the damn turret and pulling him into the tightest hug he can manage – certainly tight enough that he'd have to work hard to get out of it.

"I am _not_ leaving you," he says, fiercely, and of that much he is certain. "I am staying right here, Bass, right here, and whatever else happens… whatever else happens I will always be there for you. You got me? _Always_."

Bass is a mess. He still can't stop crying, but after a moment of resisting being hugged… he caves. He always caves for Miles. He crawls into his chest again, that weird feeling still there in the pit of his stomach but he has to ignore it because if… because they'd be kicked out and then he'd have ruined Miles' life too, and soldiering and Miles are the only things he knows and he's not sure what he'd do if he wasn't a soldier. He just… isn't good at anything else. Ever.

"Always… always…" he sobs out, and grabs hold of Miles' hair. Pulling their foreheads together. He almost breaks down. Almost kisses him again. Has to prove he doesn't need to. Has to prove he can… not. Holds him close enough that he can smelltaste his breath. Crying. Open and raw and just crying. And when he's almost not able to stop himself any more, when he thinks if he doesn't kiss him he'll die… he goes back to burying himself in Miles' arms. Which is where he wants to stay. At least for now.

Miles just stands and holds him for a moment, until some flicker of common sense pushes through the tumult in his head, and he realises that maybe doing this up on top of the tank really isn't the best idea.

"Come on, now," he says, trying to sound together and reasonable, and not at all like his whole world is inverting. "We really should get down from this tank."

He starts trying to pull Bass down, without actually having to let go of him all that much. Because he's not sure that would be wise right now.

"I like tanks," Bass complains, but he lets himself be moved again. Because Miles always knows best. Miles always pulls him the right way. Miles… no. Stop thinking. He slinks to the floor and looks around for something to look at. That isn't Miles.

Miles sinks down beside him, reaching for the bottle in the semi-darkness and taking another mouthful. Right now… right now all that's left is to drink themselves into unconsciousness and probably wake up in the early morning feeling like death.

Is that too much to hope for?

***

**EIGHT WEEKS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

Miles is just glad to finally be doing _something_.

Eight weeks of sitting around and waiting for some kind of direction have driven him well past distraction, so it feels… almost good, to have finally declared that enough is enough.

Almost good. It doesn't change the fact that electricity has _stopped working_ and the world seems to have gone insane – at least the small part of it he still has contact with. They've been sitting around the base, watching as more and more people finally lost the will to stay and disappeared, in groups or alone, and the place has been getting quieter and quieter.

And Miles still can't shake the memories of that last phonecall, the night the lights went out. Can't shake the memory of the urgency in Ben's voice, the certainty that his brother knows what's happened.

It's a little scary. Or, it would be, if Miles did scary.

It's probably a fool's errand. Walking a thousand miles to find a man who likely won't be anywhere near where he used to live. Who might not know anything like as much as Miles imagines. But… it isn't just a man. It's his brother. And that means he's got to try.

And much as he attempts, at first, to dissuade Bass from coming with him… he's glad it doesn't work. Going alone would probably be safer… but it would leave him with the realisation that he might never see his best friend again. And that… he's glad he doesn't have to live with that.

So they pack up, anything they can carry that might be useful, and then they head out. Out of the base. Out of their old lives. And into… well. That much… he really doesn't know anymore.

When they get to the Gatehouse, where the barrier is stuck permanently in place, Bass turns around to look one last time at the base. At the walls. Fences. The old sense of safety and security and purpose, turned into a meaningless shell. It's a heavy feeling and he shivers under it. That or the cold. And it is getting cold. Which is why he's glad they wound up here with all the useful supplies to steal. He wonders how bad the civilians have had it, who don't even know how to make a tent or get water. Wonders how many people died.

"It seems kinda wrong to leave without… without being ordered to," Bass muses. "I guess we're gonna have to get used to no one giving orders any more."

"I know," Miles replies. "But if we keep waiting… those orders will never come. I guess we'll just have to make it up as we go along."

He strongly suspects the whole world is just making it up as it goes along, now. What else is there? The lynchpin of society has vanished in the blink of an eye and there's nothing left to take its place. Just anarchy.

Chaos. Miles doesn't like chaos. They need to find some sort of structure. Even if it's just having a goal and aiming for it.

Like Chicago. Answers. That… is a goal he can focus on.

"We could take it in turns, if it would help," Bass jokes. "I could order you to clean my boots and you could order me to sit on my backside while you make a fire…"

He shrugs the pack higher onto his shoulder, and turns away from the base for good. Waits for Miles to set the pace. He has longer legs but Bass always manages to keep up.

"I'm done with orders," Miles replies, surprising himself with the words that seem to come out of nowhere. "Now… I'm just going with what seems right."

Right. Useful. Good. One of those. Maybe a mixture. He's a decent enough person, he can tell the difference. …Right?

"I apologise in advance if we get lost," he adds, a little wryly. "This is going to be a lot harder without GPS."

It surprises Bass too. They've always liked the structure. The… sense. And maybe he thought if it was just the two of them they could make their own – both sense and structure. But that's why Miles is leading them out and Bass is following. He can't deny he's the more institutionalised of them.

"It's okay. We can just pretend it's one of those damn rookie courses where they dump you in a field. We've got a basic map and we can read road signs and if we find libraries or tourist shops we can get maps from in there too. I'm not all that bad at directions." No. Really. The time in Kabul aside.

"I always liked those exercises," Miles points out. "They usually had a more clearly defined end, though."

He does indeed have a map, which he looks at for a moment before shrugging and tucking it back in his pocket. "It can't be all that difficult," he says – though which of them he's trying to convince is unclear. "We just go north-west and hope we hit Chicago before we fall into Canada."

"I thought finding your brother was a fairly well-defined end. Agreed I'm not sure what we'll do when we do find him, but as it's gonna take us… weeks? Months? We can probably make that up as we go along."

"If people start going 'eh' at us, we know we've gone too far. And maybe if we see Mounties. I bet the Mounties don't even know the power went out." He jogs his elbow into Miles' side. "Did I ever tell you about that Canadian chick I banged?"

"Which one?" Miles asks, having long since become completely oblivious to the undertones of these conversations. "The one with the secret tattoo or the one with all the whale pictures?"

"The one with the catsuit and the obsession with my toes," Bass says, sounding slightly insulted that he didn't know which one. "Maybe we'll find her and I can find you a nice Eskimo woman and you can skin some animals for her."

"Oh yes. I remember." Miles isn't entirely sure he _does_ remember, but that probably won't matter in the long run. "Well, if we don't find her, I'm sure sooner or later we'll run into a suitable substitute."

"I brought lots of rubbers. If you forgot, I mean. I know we should keep them for water bottles but if the world's ending I'd rather get laid a few more times than drink from a condom, I don't know about you."

"…It's refreshing to know you've got your priorities worked out. And the world is not ending. It's just… it's changing."

Miles really does need to keep telling himself that.

"It looks pretty damn end of times to me. I know I didn't go to Sunday School or anything but planes dropping out of the sky and phones not working and cars and stuff? What the hell else is it?"

"I don't know," Miles has to admit.

But hopefully Ben does. He avoids mentioning this part out loud, though. He's not sure how much he wants to talk about it.

They walk in silence for a bit. It's unsettling. Bass doesn't like silence, even if Miles does. Eventually he can't cope with it any more. "So. You gonna tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Miles asks, keeping the emotion out of his tone as he looks across at the other man.

"Your bucket list," Bass prompts him, head tilted curiously. "Cos if it… well. We should try and do all of the things you don't need power for."

"…I don't have a bucket list," Miles replies.

This is not strictly true. He does have what one might class as a bucket list, but it's very short. 1. Do not let Bass down. 2. Do not let Ben down. 3. Do not die. 4. On no account go back to Texas.

5…

No. Not 5. Only 4.

"Well you better get one. Because I'm gonna make it my mission to fill it for you. And you can have a mission to fill mine and then there's something to live for." Bass smiles in a slightly too intent way. Mostly because he doesn't have one either yet and he's hiding that fact.

That gets Bass a smile in return, followed by a manly clap to the shoulder.

"Deal," Miles says, though what you're supposed to put on a bucket list after the end of the world is anyone's guess.

Miles' approval means a lot to Bass. More than he will admit aloud, and the pat and the nice words make him feel like maybe it's not so bad after all. They still have each other, even if they don't have much of anything else… but sometimes even on tours that's the most you have. Your men and your kit bag.

"I'm not getting you a pony though. If you ask for anything stupidly gay you're on your own."

"A pony? Definitely not. A horse, on the other hand…"

Oh, but he misses his car.

"That would be something, wouldn't it?" he goes on, and you could be forgiven for thinking he looks almost – almost – wistful. As much as a man like him ever can, especially when faced with a reality that no longer does nought to sixty in five seconds. "I guess things will go that way again now nothing works. Horses. Carts. A real Wild West edge…"

"Do you even know how to ride a horse?" Bass asks. "I thought you hated Texas. I don't remember you running away and becoming a rodeo rider, did I get hit on the head and miss a few months?"

"You should be so lucky. And I do hate Texas. And no… I don't know how to ride a horse. But how hard can it be? You climb on the damn thing and resist the urge to fall off."

"I think you have to stay on it when it wants you not on it, and… let it drink and stuff… and… break them in by whispering?" Bass laughs. "Fuck, we're useless aren't we?"

Miles laughs as well, the whole thing a little too ridiculous for even him to take seriously. "Yep," he says. "Completely. Which I guess is why we'll be walking for the foreseeable future. At least until we find someone who understands these things. We can do guns and not dying in forests without GPS, and they can do horses. And maybe cooking."

"I can cook!" Bass insists. "Toast is food!"

"…If you can make toast in a fire in the woods, Bass, I may even take pity on you and eat it," Miles concedes, trying hard not to laugh.

"You put it on a stick and it gets warm and you eat it," Bass says, defensively. "It's not really hard. And I can do beans on toast too. I can also do cereal with milk. But maybe not without fridges because we'll run out of UHT soon."

"Well, that settles it," Miles says. "Dinner's on you tonight."

***

**THREE MONTHS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

When the sun starts to sneak under the ill-fitting door to the barn where they're hiding, it wakes Bass immediately. He's not really been sleeping heavy anyway, because although it's so cold outside they have to take shelter here he's still worried about bandits coming in the night to slit their throats. And after the first few nights when they sort of kept watch, it became clear fairly soon it wasn't doable long term. So they moved to the soldier's light sleep.

Miles is still grumbling, so Bass rolls over and rummages inside his rucksack. He does it as quietly as possible. And when he's ready, he whispers. "Miles… Miles, wake up."

Miles' eyes are open in a second, and he almost – but not quite – goes for his weapon before his mind processes that it's Bass speaking to him, and not some intruder. To be honest, the snow is so bad that the risk of someone finding them here is actually pretty low, but it doesn't remove the possibility. Or the thoughts.

Once he's aware that they're not actually in danger, he seems to relax a little, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then looking over at Bass, not sitting up yet.

"…What is it?" he asks, mind still heavy with whatever he was dreaming, before he woke.

"I know we should be in Chicago by now and I probably got us lost more than you, so I feel bad we're stuck in this hell hole instead of with your brother… and I figured it was probably about the right time so…" Bass holds out a bundle of fabric. "Merry Christmas."

The bundle of fabric is a stiff winter coat. Bass found it a while back and hid it from him, which seemed like a good idea at the time until it got colder and colder. And now he wonders if maybe he should have given it to him a few days ago. It's dark green and inside there's a chocolate bar and a sports magazine he found too. He tries very much not to look like he's anxious that Miles doesn't think it's a stupid idea.

…Christmas. Miles had completely forgotten about Christmas, but he guesses it must be sometime around now.

Funny, the things you forget. Or remember, in Bass' case. Miles can't help but be a little touched by it all, and it shows.

"You're too good to me," he says, sitting up and taking the coat, admiring it – knowing he'll be glad of it in this freak weather – before reaching over and pulling Bass into a hug. A hug with a lot less back-slapping than he might once have insisted upon.

"I completely lost track of time. I haven't got you anything yet. But… I will."

"You don't need to. You… you brought me along. That's all I need," Bass insists, although he enjoys the hug too and he's relieved Miles seems to like the presents. "Take me home to meet the family and I'm all yours."

"Of course I brought you along. I'm glad I did. I don't know if I could have made it this far on my own."

Not from a technical point of view – he's good at field survival, after all. But he thinks he might have lost it completely without the other man there to keep him sane. Keep him company.

"Yeah you'd be there already," Bass insists. "Okay. It's time for breakfast. I can burn you something if you want?"

"Absolutely," Miles agrees. "You know your cooking has been the highlight of this trip."

"I thought the highlight of the trip was when you tried to catch that rabbit and ended up falling out of a tree?" Bass says, and goes over to their meagre supply of stores. They're going to need to do another raid of the village soon. But he's not going to say that on 'Christmas', so he gets started on making porridge.

"I did not fall out of that tree. It was a properly-executed combat manoeuvre."

He'd fallen. It had actually hurt, though he wasn't going to admit that at the time. Or now.

"Yes, the rabbit did the combat manoeuvre, you did… I'm not even going to dignify that with a name." The small fire is lit just long enough to warm the water, because Bass doesn't want to smoke out their little hidey hole. Or let anyone know they're here. Reluctantly he puts it out, then shuffles back over with their breakfast. "How long do you think we'll need to stay here before we can head out again?"

"…Could be days, if it carries on like this," Miles answers, pointedly ignoring any further remarks about the rabbit and the tree. "If it stops… we might be able to risk a day on the road – though I don't know where we'd hole up next if it gets bad again."

Bass nods. Days. And the days turn into weeks. Some days he wonders if maybe they should stop walking… but that's because he doesn't have a brother to go home to. So he stops thinking it.

"I'm sure it never used to snow this much. Do you think it's worse or just because we're out in it?"

"I don't know. Possibly both. Either that, or whatever broke the power has broken the weather as well."

Probably just a bad winter. Probably.

"We need some more water," Bass says. It's more than water but he won't admit that. He's seen the sky the past few days and the thought of walking in the horrible snow storm is… not worth considering. "I'm gonna go before it gets too late and stragglers get up. You stay there, it's my turn."

He likes to scavenge for things. It's why he normally volunteers. "Any requests?"

"Surprise me," Miles answers. "Just don't freeze to death."

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Bass snaps to attention, then leaves before Miles throws anything at him.

***

The day passes, as the days are wont to do in the midst of all this hideous weather, and soon the night sets in; long, dark and cold, as they all are at the moment. Outside, the days-long snowstorm drags on, though at least the gale has dropped a little and it's quieter at last.

It's still dark when Miles wakes, though he can't tell if it's the middle of the night or approaching morning. Indeed, to start off with, he's not fully awake and isn't even sure when or where he is – just that he's curled up against the cold, another warm body pressed comfortably against his. A lovely warm, willing body, Miles' arm wrapped around them, faced pressed into the back of the other person's neck…

… _other person_ …

…it's Bass.

For a very long moment, Miles doesn't move. At all. He considers jumping back, and then he considers stealthily sliding back, both in the hope that the other man is still asleep and won't have noticed. But then he remembers something… remembers that godawful night back in another world. Him and Bass, drinking Scotch behind a tank. Bass, kissing him. And Miles saying…

…not 'no.' Not 'I don't want to.' Just 'we shouldn't.' Because of the rules. All the rules. All the rules that have shattered into nothingness now the world is changed.

There are no rules. Not anymore. Just anarchy. Just a void… waiting for new rules to be imposed upon it. Or… welcomed into it.

And something in Miles' head just snaps. Snaps, and before he's got time to second-guess himself, he's pulling away just enough to roll Bass onto his back, leaning in over him and… wondering if he dares.

Bass was happily asleep, feeling warm and protected and perfectly safe. He can't remember the last time he slept that deeply. So when Miles rolls him he's all too willing to comply, sleepy and contented. He yawns widely, and murmurs something that might be a 'Hey', arching his head up just a little to nuzzle at Miles' face. Not that he knows it's Miles. Or maybe he does. He's still more or less asleep anyway and he just knows he feels pretty good for once and there's no reason to open his eyes right now.

The lack of argument is all the motivation Miles needs not to stop. He closes the remaining gap between them and kisses Bass nigh-on bruisingly, and _fuck_ , but he feels so wonderful, so wonderful and so familiar, even though it was only one night over two years ago – and not a good night at that.

Not like this. Warm and safe and pressed in over him, and nothing, nothing holding him back anymore.

Being woken with passionate kisses is probably up there on the list of reasons to open your eyes on a morning. But Bass still doesn't, because… because… he doesn't. Maybe he knows what's going on and is scared if they look at one another again then it'll snap and shatter and this time there'll be no reason for him to stay.

Instead, he reaches out for Miles, wraps his arms around broad – whoa, okay, weird – shoulders – and kisses back and – okay, chapped and rough and not at all dainty, and coming on way stronger than…

Bass opens his eyes. Really opens them. Then he grabs Miles' shoulders and pushes him back just enough so he can talk. Except he doesn't. His eyes wander all over Miles' face, his lips, the creases around his eyes, the set of his jaw, and all the questions in the world are there in his gaze. He daren't speak in case… in case it makes it not real. And that lurching feeling in the pit of his stomach is back and telling him it better be fucking real because if it isn't he's going to have to go somewhere and jerk off this time because there's no goddamn way he can pretend he's not as turned on as he can ever remember being.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Miles says, that rough, aroused-as-all-hell edge in his tone once more, but so completely unhidden now. "Especially when you look at me like that."

So he kisses Bass again – deeper this time, and longer, and it feels so strange but so goddamn perfect… he's kissing a _guy_ and it's _Bass_ and all he can think is that he doesn't ever, ever want to stop.

Eventually, though, the requirement for oxygen forces his hand, and he has no choice but to break the kiss, keeping the gap between them at a minimum, eyes dark with need.

Miles' words hit like a punch to the gut, and Bass actually jumps under them. Beautiful? Him? Not… not like Miles is. With his rugged jaw, his dark, unreadable eyes, the way his hair turns around his temples and… fuck. Maybe he is really gay. Or maybe it's just Miles. He's not sure. He chokes out a little pleased but strangled crow of victory, but he doesn't get long to sound inarticulate because Miles starts to kiss him again.

Fuck it. He wanted this then, he'd be lying if he said he hasn't wanted it every single day since. Even if he's thrown himself at any female with a pulse he's come across in the meantime. He slides a hand into Miles' hair and pulls tight enough to sting, keeping him close and refusing to let him go again. His other hand… he lies flat over Miles' heart, to feel it pounding. Fuck but it's racing. It even sounds in sync with his own.

"I thought you said this was a bad idea," he manages to blurt out, that… lingering doubt of rejection needing out before… before… "What changed?"

" _Everything_ ," Miles breathes, and fuck but the head rush at that realisation is so bad and so good all at once. "All the rules are gone, Bass. We make our own, now. We make them _better_."

Better. He'd never have thought this insane, powerless world could ever be better. Not until he realised that this insane, powerless world could be anything he wants it to be.

Bass' eyes narrow like he's thinking through the ramifications. Wondering what it could mean. Not just for them… the whole world has changed. Maybe it is the end of days. He's suddenly glad he packed extra condoms after all.

"I'm not gay," he feels the need to say. "I… just… want to kiss you. A lot." He bites his lip and hopes that doesn't sound… well. Shitty. "Is… that okay?" He should probably stop trying to talk. His dick is currently screaming with him for being an ass and saying 'just go with it already I don't remember the last time you used me for anything but pissing' but his dick says that a lot. He reaches his hand from Miles' chest to stroke wonderingly over his lips. "A lot," he repeats.

"Then fuck, Bass, don't let me stop again," Miles growls, pressing in to kiss him some more, one hand still propping him up and the other now moving to rake firmly over Bass' chest, the need to touch him and trace him and _claim_ him burning in his mind. And other places.

Shit. Shit. That's fucking hot. Incredibly fucking hot. Apparently he likes possessive, aggressive Miles. Something to note. He arches like a fucking bitch under his hand and then it's no holds barred. He's got permission and he fully intends to abuse it, which means his hands go straight for Miles' belt and start ripping it open, and when he can't get his pants off in time he jams a hand under the waistband and fuckohfuckit'shotandwarmandhardandfuck… his hands pause for a moment, confused, and then he's fighting Miles to try get on top of him. Because he needs them both to be naked PDQ.

For a moment, Miles doesn't want to give up the top position, but then he remembers that it's _Bass_ and fuck but he wants the man's hands all over him _now_ … and that means there really is no time for pride here.

So eventually, he stops resisting and lets Bass roll him, crashing roughly onto his back and making sure to pull the other man on top of him in the process. All whilst still kissing him fiercely, the need so intense he can't think properly. Doesn't need to think properly. Doesn't need anything else… just _him_.

Pleased, Bass wastes no time in yanking Miles' shirt up, growling into the kiss so he'll break it long enough to pull it off, and then going right back into it. Which leaves his hands free to roam all over the other man's chest. Shoulders. Arms. The flat planes of his side and the dip of his navel. Fuck. He wants to lick it all. He scrapes his nails over Miles' sides, wanting to make him gasp, wanting to make him _his_. And then there's nipples. Which are kind of like women's, except in a less squishy housing. He wonders if Miles likes it when he grabs them and twists them, because he wants to hear the man utterly wrecked. And he wants to do it all right fucking now. He breaks off the kiss to bite his way over the other man's throat, because he goddamn wants to _hear_ him.

Miles can't help crying out in near-ecstasy at that – and really, when was he ever this vocal? He can't stop it, though – can't stop the obvious, unashamed sounds of pleasure, growling back as he decides that Bass needs to be shirtless as well. _Fucking now_. So his hands go to start tugging the other man's shirt off before he gets distracted again by things like kisses and bites and his hands everywhere… and…

…Fuck. This is doing something to the back of his mind, waking something up he didn't know was there; something raw and primal and utterly, utterly incredible beyond all measure.

" _Fuck_ , yes," he growls. "Don't you dare stop."

Bass makes a noise of disgust that he has to stop the biting enough to get his shirt off, but then it's off and that's… cold. But his skin is still burning up, so that's okay. He has his hands pinning Miles' hips down, the belt unfastened and the fly unzipped but no further. Miles' hips are narrow. Beautiful, but narrow. The man is all angles and he's going to cut himself on them.

"I want you naked," Bass says, when he can. "I'm going to strip you bare. And then I'm going to eat you… unless you have any objections?" He yanks down on the waistband, making it clear he means 'right now'.

Miles grabs the side of Bass' head and pulls him close and down, so their faces are just inches apart again. "Do I look like I object?" he says, kissing him brutally hard but quick, before releasing his hold. "Now… _please_ , Bass, just don't ever stop…"

Part of him – part of the part that's woken up at the back of his head – wants to grab hold of the man again; flip him, pin him, just take what's _his_. But the rest of him likes this too much. Likes being the undiverted focus of Bass' attention. Him. No one else. _Him_.

"I'm not gonna stop. Not even if you beg me to," Bass replies with a wolfish, sharp look that says once the door is open there's no going back. Not ever. Which is probably why Miles said no the last time… because if they ever started… he knew they'd never stop.

With far more force than essential, Bass pulls the rest of Miles' clothing off and throws it against the barn wall. And then Miles is naked. Naked as the day he was born, but considerably more attractive.

He has to stop. He wasn't sure he could, but… now he sees Miles here, flushed and shivering slightly… it makes a wave of protectiveness flare up. Bass just… drinks him in. He's seen him naked plenty of times, but it was through necessity, not choice. And here he is, vulnerable and wanting, and all Bass'. His tongue runs out over his lower lip as he lets himself really, really look. At the hair on his chest. At the colour of the insides of his thighs. At the soft bed of curls around his swollen balls and straining dick. It looks too fucking big like this, proud and standing to attention. And… and…

" _Fuck_ , but you're beautiful," he says, and reaches out a cautious hand to… rest under his cock, testing the weight of it. Like he's not sure yet what he's supposed to do. Or maybe doesn't want to start.

And God, but that sounds so wonderful, coming from him, from Bass, with his bright blue eyes and his wicked, wicked mouth. What light there is plays over him, over the contours of his body, his chest, making him look almost otherworldly.

Fuck. How long has he wanted the man? How long has the need been burning at the back of his mind, a need so intense that it makes the sum total of everything that has gone before seem so insignificant in comparison?

Miles runs a hand through Bass' hair, holding but not interfering. "Only for you," he replies.

"I don't share," Bass says, with some finality. And a jealous note that's impossible to ignore. "You're mine and only mine." The hand on Miles' dick tightens, as his fingers curl all the way around. He stares straight into Miles' eyes. "I'll make you scream the roof off."

And then his eyes go dark. "Beg me."

For a second – a whole second, but no more – Miles considers refusing. Considers pointing out that he doesn't _do_ begging… doubly so if he's _told_ to.

But it isn't refusal that slips his lips, hurried and almost desperate, once that crucial but fast-forgotten second is past. It isn't anything like refusal and he thinks perhaps it never could have been. Not in the face of that look in Bass' eyes. That look that does all sorts of _other_ things to the back of his mind… and other places as well.

" _Please_ , Bass," he whispers, and there's an edge to his voice that no other soul has heard before. " _Please_."

"Please… what?" Bass is so fucking turned on right now. At having his strong, sure brother in arms begging him in desperation. The power high is suffocating. "Please… what?" His hand twists, and he leans in to breathe hot promises over Miles' throat. He can't remember feeling this aroused… ever. And he still has his pants on.

" _Please_ ," Miles gasps again, sounding utterly wrecked. "Bass… please… I need you, need you to bring me off… _fuck_ , I want to come _screaming_ your name."

And hell but he does not know where all of this is coming from. He just knows he means every goddamn syllable.

That's more than e-fucking-nough for Bass, because he's almost coming in his own pants listening to the man. Miles sounds utterly, completely owned. Bass growls ferally and bites down hard on Miles' throat as he goes from vice-like grip to jerking the man off as fast and furiously as he can. He knows enough about self-abuse to know how hard is almost too hard, and he's just enough of a bastard to twist as he slams his hand down into Miles' balls. And he isn't taking no for an answer. He wants to show him how fucking good he can make it. Wants him to realise he's never had – never will have – better. And that he should stay in this barn with Bass until the world really ends.

And _fuck_ but that's more wonderful to Miles than everything else in the world put together. Even everything before the lights went out. Better than chocolate and Scotch and putting his foot down on the open road with the music blaring and _definitely_ better than anyone else ever could be.

Because how _could_ anything be better than Bass, his Bass, with that look in his eyes and pure, brutal need in his grip? He's quite certain no one else could do this. Quite certain that there isn't another soul in the world who could reduce Sergeant Miles Matheson to incoherent, broken, utterly shameless begging.

He doesn't stand a chance of holding out. Not when it's been weeks since he had any attention and certainly not when it's _Bass_ on top of him, jerking him into perfect oblivion. That doesn't stop him fighting to hold out as long as he can – whether from pride, need or something else entirely is hard to say – but it's a losing battle and, for once, he's happy to concede.

And then the wave of furious, brutal pleasure overtakes all at once, completion crashing into him so hard, he can barely breathe. He still manages to make good on his promise, though, positively screaming Bass' name to the rafters, but it's the only coherence he's capable of right now.

Bass can feel his name rattling through Miles' throat and it's like liquid gold, it tastes of heaven and cold beer and strawberries and ice cream and everything all at once. And he's going fucking poetic. Which is how he knows he's completely screwed. And ridiculously, head over heels in love with his best friend. Who now is of the mutual opinion that they should be screwing. Which is just… For the first time in forever, he's sure the world is better without electricity. A world with electricity might never have him feeling Miles spill hot, sticky come all over his hand. Might never have his cock twitching in between Bass' fingers. Geez.

When he's milked every last little spasm out of his best friend, he lets go of his (slowly bruising) throat, and both hands (clean and dirty) grab his hair and he crushes their mouths together for a hot, teeth-smashing kiss. Fuck. Yes.

Still completely out of his mind, Miles just reaches up and grabs hold of the other man, unconsciously desperate to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. And then he's being kissed again, so he kisses back, as hard and hot and breathy as he can manage, not letting it break until he's so oxygen-deprived that the world is starting to tunnel.

For a long, long moment he can barely move – nor does he want to. But as the world starts to come back, he realises he owes the man. Big time.

"Your turn," he growls, and flips them both all at once, before Bass can protest, throwing the man onto his back and pinning him down and then kissing him bruisingly all over again, whilst trying to get his pants off. Because. One of them is not nearly naked enough, and he knows it isn't him.

The first thing Bass does is struggle. He's still floating on his ridiculous power-trip and it's difficult to come down fast. If ever. And he's not that keen about being on his back, either. He's never really liked it and he doesn't know why.

But he forces himself. Forces his shaking hands to stop pushing, and instead grabs at Miles' forearms. Grinds his teeth together and tries to move his hips in a helpful manner, even though his cock is screaming to do the things cocks normally want to do. Except to a man.

"I want to give you the fucking world," Miles says, finally getting hold of Bass' cock and starting to stroke furiously hard. "I would, you know. If it was mine to give. The whole fucking world."

And this… oh this is strange and familiar all at once. Familiar because it's a cock, and he knows what to do with one of those. Strange because it isn't his, and the angle is weird… and _fuck_ , he's glad he's come already, because if he hadn't, this would be pure _torture_.

"I don't need it," Bass says, still fighting down that fire, and… and slowly letting go into the feeling of… of Miles. Stroking him. Punishingly hard. He deserves to be punished, for how perverted he is. For how much he wants to screw his best friend. "I… I have you…"

The lovely hotpoolingburningmelting feeling is getting harder to resist, and Bass' eyes roll back as he starts thrusting helplessly into Miles' hand. He doesn't want to come like a randy teenager, but… but he thinks he's going to anyway. The hard, wound little knot of tension in his chest is easing, making it more and more okay… making it more and more right. "M-M-Miles…" he stammers, and then wraps his legs around Miles' waist so he can fuck up into his hand better, like a randy little slut. "…p-p-ppppplease…"

"Bass…" Miles whispers, leaning in close over him. "You're right. You do. You have me. I'm all yours now…"

And apparently he likes playing with the balance-of-power whiplash-thing that's going on here. Either that or he's outright trying to provoke the man into… what, exactly? Something, certainly.

He can't stop himself – though that doesn't mean he would if he could.

"Mine!" Bass cries out, although the tone says 'Yours', and he can't help it, he can't help but lose control for him. Raving nonsense noises of pleasure, he fuckfuckfuckfuckcomes in his hand, fingernails scraping livid red marks over the man's shoulders as he does, the last little yardstick in his spine snapping as he surrenders, sobbing and boneless when the last spurts of come finish splashing over his belly.

Miles grabs hold of him again and pulls him into a fierce, crushing hug, rolling them both onto their sides now, all the better to pull Bass in tighter, to hold him so they're chest to chest, skin against skin. Where he can feel both of their racing hearts.

"That was fucking wonderful," he breathes. "We have to do that again. Forever."

Bass is still not really in his mind, but he manages to weakly hold onto Miles, snuggling in like he's going to keep him safe forever. Like he's going to never leave. Words are hard and Miles insists on talking when he thinks he just shot his brain and half his heart out through his cock?

"…few …hours first…?" he asks, sounding a little terrified at the thought that Miles might want more already. He feels like he's spent twenty years' worth of tension in less than twenty minutes. And… it's terrifying to know he's… got this? Got what he always wanted but never asked for? Fuck, why is he crying like a little bitch? He shoves his head under Miles' chin to hide.

Miles laughs, though there's a lot of warmth in his tone, even though he still sounds pretty wrecked. "Of course," he says. "I'm not magic, you know."

And then he holds on tighter, trying… to make the other man feel safe. Held. Wanted… and after having made him wait so fucking long. He's got a lot to make up for, and he finds himself strangely desperate to do it.

"Okay, good," Bass says, his voice still shaking a little, a bit too high pitch with barely restrained emotion. "Because I'm gonna do even better next time so I want to make sure you're ready for me to make your toe hairs curl."

He hopes he can. If that was anything to go by he doesn't really have to worry, but still the thought of his lack of… expertise eventually being more awkward than any chemistry is… fuck it Bass, stop being negative as ever. He cuddles a bit tighter. "…you have no idea how long I've…"

"I know," Miles whispers. "I know. But… you have me now, and I'm not going anywhere. Not without you."

And then he grasps the side of Bass' face, holding him so he can stare into his eyes. "You were amazing, Bass. Like… you knew me better than I know myself. Which you probably do."

"I…" Bass has the decency to blush, and try to look away. "…who would know you as well as me?" Then he bites his bottom lip, and wonders if he should say or not.

"What is it?" Miles can't help asking, and fuck, but Bass looks so hot when he does that, and Miles has to concentrate so as not to end up… distracted.

"I'm not… you know. But. I kinda… I think that…" Bass can't say it, so he punches his arm in a manly fashion instead. "Shut up, you know already, okay!"

"…I know," Miles says, thinking he understands and deciding not to push the matter. "Me too."

"Good." Because there's no way in hell Bass is admitting that it was the best sex he's ever had and they didn't even get past hands and barely lasted ten minutes. There are things you just don't say.

"I think you could at least share that Hershey's bar with me, so I can recover faster and show you how fast chocolate melts in warm places…"

The strange – though perhaps unsurprising thing – is that Miles has been thinking along very similar lines for the last few minutes. "Oh, I could be persuaded…" he says, a wicked look in his own eyes now.

Bass hits him. "You get up, 'cause I found it. And then I'll show you."

"Promises, promises…" Miles drawls, leaning to nip Bass on the lips before he gets up.

He's suddenly very grateful for the snowstorm. Maybe they won't have to move for days.

***

**SIX MONTHS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

Bass lies in his sleeping bag, waiting. He can hear the muted conversation from the next tent along, and it's making him more and more irate with every passing half-sound. He glares at the tent flap, wondering how long Miles is going to make him wait, and knowing fine well he's over-reacting.

He can't help it. That's just the kind of person he is. Miles seems not to mind most of the time.

It's a good few more minutes before Miles turns up, clambering into the tent and closing up the flap.

"Well, he'll live," he says, oblivious – so far – to Bass' mood. "We'll have to take it slow for the next few days, but once he's got his strength back we should be able to start moving at pace again."

The 'he' in question is the man they'd met, earlier in the day. Jeremy. They've run into people on the road before, but this is the first time there's been reason for them to stick together.

Miles had practically insisted on it. Jeremy was in quite a state after they'd rescued him from that pair of thugs, and Miles knows the man probably wouldn't make it much longer on his own. It was only furiously good luck that he hadn't gotten himself killed this time.

But… there's more to it than that. Miles can still remember the confrontation. Can still remember the way the rage had boiled up inside his chest, the realisation that people were fighting and stealing and killing indiscriminately – the anarchy of the world having left no more reasons to do otherwise. They were in a state of chaos. Of war. And… it feels wrong. All wrong. And Miles can't shake the feeling that he ought to do something about it. Starting, it seems, with Jeremy.

"Oh, good. I'm glad we're going to be even more delayed," Bass says, his tone a little strained. He's still hiding in his sleeping bag, the edge pulled up high. Covering himself. "He's lucky the great hero Miles Matheson found him in time."

"Hey," Miles retorts, just a little sharply, "what was I supposed to do? They were going to murder the guy in cold blood. I couldn't just let them."

"No, and you were good and noble and you saved him. But now he's sleeping in my tent, right next to us, and what do we know about him? We know he can't win in a fair fight and he doesn't want to talk about what he did before. He could be anyone, Miles. He could be some baby-raping paedophile or a serial killer. And he's _sleeping in the next tent_. And even if no one was going to help him… what are you planning to do, Miles? There's no backup. Are you just gonna shoot everyone who you think did something wrong?"

Bass' fingers drum on the sleeping bag. "I just… how many people are you going to pick up, or is he… special?" And there's the jealousy, right there.

Miles glares at him. "I am not picking people up, Bass! I don't see why this is such an issue. The guy needed help. Why is it so wrong to try to be a better person? We can't just give in to this chaos and abandon all moral grounding just because there's no one left to enforce it!"

He slumps down on top of his own sleeping bag, not getting into it yet. "Besides," he goes on, dropping his voice rather more now, "If he turns out to be a serial killer, I have plenty of bullets left."

"He's IN MY TENT," Bass hisses. "I don't see how it isn't picking people up! And fine… be all good and noble and you'll get yourself killed because you're just one man and no one gives a shit any more. You just… you just shot them! How is that..?" He shakes his head. It makes sense, sort of. It does. But it's also fucking terrifying to think that his partner is apparently the scales of justice: judge, jury and executioner.

Bass shakes his head. "Fine. Sure. Shoot him too. I'll get you a Sheriff's badge next time we hit a town. And that horse you always wanted."

The trouble is, the man has a point. Miles knows that intervening was the right thing to do. Intervening. Yes. Stepping in and helping out. Not _shooting two men in the chest_. Whether or not they deserved it… it doesn't change the fact that he did it. That he killed them without giving them an alternative. Without remorse.

With… No. To call it pleasure is just wrong. He hadn't enjoyed it. But that doesn't change the lingering awareness that it had felt… right. Right to kill them. Right to shoot the second man first, so that the ringleader had a few seconds to process what was coming before the bullet hit.

Right. No trial, no balance, no second chances. Just death.

No wonder Bass is worried. Miles is a little worried himself.

"Yes. I shot them. It felt… like the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn't."

Bass rolls over to stare at him. He doesn't know what to say. Not really.

"I don't want you to end up like them. I don't… I don't want someone to come along and shoot _you_ , because you shot them." Maybe it was right but Bass is also selfish. And if Miles is going to go all Judge Dredd… what does that make him? Judge Dredd doesn't exactly paint a pretty picture for the… love interest.

Bass bites his lip, fretting. It just… upsets him. That darkness he saw, even briefly. That ruthlessness. They've killed before, but always under orders. And now there are no orders… so aren't they just like any other looter?

"I'm not going to end up like them," Miles insists, as much to convince himself as to convince Bass. "They did it to help themselves. I… did it to help someone else."

Fuck, now he doesn't feel convinced at all. But the really worrying thing is, if he had to do it all again… he still thinks he'd do exactly the same thing. What does that say about him?

"So you're gonna be the police, Miles? I know you want to look after people… but when are you gonna draw the line?"

"…When it feels right. I just think that, if we lose all lingering sense of decency… what's left? What's left but war and anarchy and death? I don't know about you, but if the world has to be rebuilt… that's not how I want it to look."

He's digging deeper and deeper and he knows it. Part of him just wants to say fine, I acted on a whim, it won't happen again. Maybe even meaning it. The trouble is… he didn't. And he doesn't.

Bass thinks about it. He's… not sure he wants to be the one doing the rebuilding, but… he can kinda see how someone has to. And in a world gone mad then brute power will be the only thing they listen to. And it's better it's Miles than some crazy criminal mastermind.

"If… if it's what you believe, then I'll be with you. Just… don't think so much about other people that you forget…" Me? Us? "I've got your back."

Miles finally looks over at him again, expression softening just a little. "I know you have." He moves closer, hand out to make contact, needing it rather more than he might have expected right now. "And it…-"

There's another thing. He's not sure he should admit the other thing. The words hover unspoken for a moment before he forces himself to push on, and even as he does he isn't sure it's sensible.

"-…I wasn't just thinking about other people. I was thinking about you. That murdered couple, they made me think about what would happen if…"

If something happened to you. And it's quite clear from his expression that a gunshot to the chest would be a mercy in comparison for anyone who dared…

Bass' eyes open wide as that sinks in, and suddenly… it's like there's a cold hand clenching at his gut. Here he was being selfish about Miles thinking more about other people, thinking about this random stranger than him and… why did he ever doubt him?

"I wouldn't let anyone kill me," Bass says, trying for a thin smile. "But. Yeah. I… I'm glad you got my six too."

"Look," Miles says, "whatever happens… I've got you. And you've got me. And the rest… we take as it comes. And maybe we make the world better. Maybe we don't. So long as we hold onto what's _right_ … the rest will follow."

Or something. He hopes. He wishes he could feel as convinced as he's trying to sound.

"…And I don't think Jeremy is a serial killer," he adds, tone a little lighter again. "But he's probably wondering what the hell's going on in here."

Bass gives two shits about what's right. What he cares about is Miles. So if Miles wants it… he guesses he'll want it too.

"…you realise we're going to… he's going to put a cramp on… our style?" Bass says, still not quite able to admit aloud that they're screwing nightly like rabid bunnies.

Miles knows he really should not be pushing the difficult moral questions aside so casually. He does. The trouble is… he doesn't want to think about them.

He has other things on his mind.

"I'm sure we can find a way around that," he says, a dark little grin crossing his face. "We'll just have to be really, really quiet…"

And then we'll find a magical way to turn all the lights back on just like that. Because the two are about equally likely right now.

"I don't do quiet," Bass says, sounding aloof. "I believe in voicing my appreciation. And I like it when you do, too." Even though he's not – really – suggesting they scream the tent off the frame. Really.

"So I've noticed," Miles replies. " _Repeatedly_. But unless you want our new acquaintance the not-serial-killer – and everyone else within about three klicks of here – to share in your appreciation… maybe we should keep it down this time…"

'Keep it down.' Not, under any circumstances 'stop,' 'halt,' 'pause' or, indeed, 'hesitate for one second.' Oh no. Miles does not look like a man interested in doing any of _these_ things.

"You might need to help me with that. I don't do… 'down'," Bass says, and pointedly looks at Miles' groin. He's still hiding in his sleeping bag, because he likes being a bit of an ass at times.

"I'm sure I can find a way…"

And now Miles looks positively wicked. He reaches to start unzipping the other man from his sleeping bag, not wanting to wait. Or think.

"So you better come out of there… because I want to be all over you _right now_." His voice drops as he speaks, becoming a little quieter but darker too, promising… things. Terrible, wonderful things.

"What if I resist?" Bass asks, slapping at Miles' hand with an equally lascivious grin. "What if I don't want to be ravished like an enemy woman?"

"What if you don't have a choice? What if I press a hand over your mouth, jam a knee between your legs, and take complete and utter advantage of you right here, right now? Sure, you could fight back… but you won't. I know you won't, not really… because you're a little deviant, and you'll love it…"

He's moving in closer, eyes dark with need and possibility – and it's clear that, if there's any chance of stopping him, it has to be fast.

Bass' eyes go black. Oh yes. He loves it when Miles talks dirty to him. Loves the words… and even more than that, loves what it does to the man's voice. It was his voice that made him… you know. This way. In the first place. Missing a few breaths and more than a few heartbeats he purrs back, "I'll bite you. I'll bite your hand so hard you'll want to scream and hurt me. And you'll want me all the more because you don't _want_ some little hussy who spreads their legs and begs for your cock. You want someone who'll match you, blow for blow."

They really, _really_ need to be careful. Bass is not quiet at the best of times and if they go all out wrestling for control and fighting tooth and nail he's normally louder than usual. He also comes like a freight train when they do it so it's worth it.

"Damn right I do," Miles nigh-on growls, "So you better put up a fight. But don't think it changes anything… because this time, Bass… this time you're gonna give me _everything_ I want."

And having finally managed to get the damn sleeping bag open, he chooses this moment to pounce, trying to slip quickly on top of the other man and pin him down before he can resist too much.

Bass screams. He screams blue murder, Jeremy forgotten or Jeremy damned. It's Miles' fault. He was the one who was provoking it. He screams and tries to roll over so he's on his hands and knees and better able to crawl the fuck away.

Miles is on top of him in a second – though given that Bass manages to move beforehand, he ends up with the other man face down beneath him, shifting his weight so as to use his hips to keep him there. And grind against him in the process.

One hand, he uses to further pin Bass down, knowing he's got to do it quick and decisive in order to avoid being unceremoniously thrown off, and the other hand gets clamped over Bass' mouth before he can scream like that again.

Possibly Miles should have stopped him sooner. Possibly he has too much devilment in him.

Possibly he wants to see the look on Jeremy's face in the morning.

"Not another _sound_ ," he growls softly, right in Bass' ear.

Bass responds by coming through on his promise and biting. Hard. Hard enough that there's gonna be a mark in the morning. A very obvious mark. Rolling over was partially a tactic to try and get away but also if he's honest (and he rarely is about this) so that Miles would mount him. Hey, it worked. His feet scrabble for purchase and not because it means he's pushing his ass harder into Miles' dick. They bang into the tent a little and it wobbles precariously. If Jeremy is dumb enough to watch this he'll be getting a rather unmistakable show. Bass' fingers claw at the ground as he tries to scream again, muffled this time.

Miles _really_ growls at the biting, but manages not to actually shout out, genuinely trying to keep quiet. Sort of. Quiet-ish.

" _Stop_ fighting," he hisses, low and deadly, the power rush filling him like a drug, snaking through his blood. "I told you: this time you're going to give me everything I want… whether you like it or not."

Bass says 'Fuck you', which is surprisingly clear considering. Miles is a little taller than him but they're similar build and weight, so he throws his weight into throwing him off. Or. Making the rubbing harder. One of those two. He's fucking hard and if Jeremy came in now Bass might well shoot him himself. He wants… this… now… hard. And he'll never admit he likes being overpowered but… some days he does. He just never lets it happen too easily.

This almost throws Miles off balance, but he's ready for it and he manages to keep his grip on the other man – just – before trying to strengthen his position, pushing him back down.

" _No_ ," he growls, "No. Not this time, you don't. So you better stop resisting before you get hurt."

He pushes his other hand – which isn't exactly free, but what the fuck – down Bass' side, roughly groping his ass. Wanting to give him a little taste of what he'll get when he behaves himself. When, if. One of those.

But Bass _wants_ to get hurt. Wants it to hurt, wants it to leave marks. So the next day when he breathes he feels it. Feels the evidence of Miles' love for him. Wants every time he coughs the twinge to make his pants tight. God he wants that.

Grabbing his ass doesn't exactly make him want to behave. He carries on bucking like mad but the 'Fuck you' might at some point have turned into a 'Fuck me' but he'll deny it if anyone says so. He bites Miles' hand again, wanting him to hurry the hell up.

Miles… is about to roll Bass again. About to get him on his back, get a hand in his pants and on his cock and…

A different urge takes him, one he hasn't really engaged with before – and certainly hasn't engaged with properly. For a few seconds, he's ready to deny it, ready to push it to the side and get on with what he's doing… but he doesn't. He can't ignore it. Not now the thought is there, wrapped up in a torrent of need and lust and… something so much more than that.

So instead, he keeps Bass on his front, though pulls him up onto his knees a little (and fuck but that's an awkward position, though he really doesn't care), reaching around to start getting his pants off.

"I know what you want," he says, lowly, his mouth just running now, even though he's still trying to keep the volume down. "So don't even try to deny it."

That's better. Bass does let himself be pulled up because then he's not pinned to the floor incapable of moving, and there's an escape route and he can pretend it makes him happy. But he doesn't immediately use it to escape. Not when Miles is pulling his pants down and off. Not when he has his hand close to his dick. Where he wants it. Fighting or no… he won't deny his ultimate goal here is getting off in as amazing a way as possible. And Miles never ceases to amaze.

He nips a little more gently at his hand. Twice. And then tries to push it out of his mouth with his tongue… seemingly calmer, and trying to say something.

Bass does. He wants… something he won't admit to. Wants… something he's never admitted to, not even to himself. Though maybe when he's been looting the thought's been there, when he was pretending it was for self-abuse reasons.

Miles takes the hint, though before he moves his hand he leans in and whispers, "Don't you dare scream this time."

Partly because he means it. Partly because he's a little worried about what Bass wants to say.

Bass snorts in derision, but when the hand doesn't move right away he nods just once to show he's willing.

Then he cracks his jaw because it's been tense all this time and he'll give himself a headache if he's not careful.

"…inside pocket, on the left," he says, quietly and… strangely subdued. It's difficult to admit to the fact he has a hidden supply of lube. In case… in case he's read the situation wrong. "And you probably need both hands so if you don't want our mutual friend to run off – if he hasn't yet – you might wanna gag me."

That makes Miles lace fingers through Bass' hair, pulling his head back. "No," he growls. "You're going to be quiet. _Or I'll stop_."

In all honesty, he's not exactly certain that he could. But, fucking hell, it's a delicious threat.

And the rest… well. Trust Bass to be prepared for something like this. But at least he _is_ prepared, which resolves a number of problematic technical questions… though not all of them. Such as, how does this even _work_ with a guy?

With his free hand, he reaches over to Bass' kit bag, rummaging around in the inside pocket to find what he thinks he's looking for… and being proven right once he locates it. Lube. Ignore the fact that it's strawberry. Just be thankful that they actually still _have_ something like this, after the end of the world.

" _Fuck_ , Bass, I want you," he breathes – meaning it so very much, but also hoping it will have the desired effect of driving the man even more wild… if perhaps making him more compliant too. Maybe. A man can but try, after all.

Having already gotten Bass' pants off, he starts on his own, not wanting to draw this out too much… just long enough.

Bass makes a noise of distress at the threat. He's noisy. He always has been. And he's not sure how exactly Miles expects him to suddenly change. But they'll come to that when they have to, he guesses. So he nods just a little against the hand in his hair. Fuck but even that feels good, exposing his throat and making his eyes water. And his dick even harder.

Bass waits while Miles goes through his bag. The fact he's looking has to be a step in the right direction. And that delicious fearhopefuck tendril is back again. Almost as bad as the first time they decided to try touching one another. This has been on the cards for a while but neither one of them has mentioned it and anything that got close quickly turned into something else. He wonders if it's just because the other guy is here that he's reckless enough to be provoking it. Maybe it's not such a bad idea after all having him along.

When Miles speaks again, Bass answers with a whimper that's more pathetic than he hoped for. He wants this too. He thinks. It's supposed to be good, right? Or why would people do it? And he's wondered what it would be like many a time. Thought about it from both sides. It just… it's happening this way first. He wonders if Miles would ever let him do the same to him. A question for later. He tries to turn his head, wanting to encourage Miles to keep the pace going. He doesn't trust his voice right now. And his thighs are shaking as he pushes back just once. Asking. Offering. And he can totally pretend he's not talking because Miles told him to be quiet.

Miles pauses a second because… now comes the actual _doing_ it part… and it's a little strange, to be graduating from hands to… to actual _fucking_ , and…

He knows how it works – at least with girls – so it must be pretty much the same with a guy… except it's not just a guy, it's _Bass_ , which means it would always be so much more even right at the start. But he knows… he needs to be careful, and he needs to take it slow, at least to begin with, and…

…screw it, overthinking again. Warm him up first. Fingers. That generally involves fingers. Miles slicks two of his with some of the lube, and then strokes one down the other man's ass, starting to push – carefully – into him.

Bass has got to be quiet. He's got to be quiet. Miles has told him to be quiet. Good soldier. Follow orders. Sit. Lie down. Roll over. Get fucked up the ass.

Bass tries really damn hard but when he feels sticky fingers slide between his cheeks and part him, his legs shake even harder and he makes a brief squawk of terror. Stop it. Stop it. Stop freaking out like you haven't had dirty dreams that make you wake up with your cock rock hard and jump Miles before he's even woken, rutting and biting and licking and anything but fucking. Practically anything. He tries to get his breathing under control, freaking out at the… weirdness. It's not like stuff doesn't go through there to begin with but that's a completely different thing and it's Miles' fingers and he's alternately tensing and trying to relax and tensing again. It kind of doesn't hurt so much as feel… strange. And tight. Fucking tight.

"Miles…"

"Bass," Miles whispers in reply. So much of the aggression has dropped out of him, now – not because he's backing down, but because he recognises that this is so much _more_ than he planned, and therefore… he needs to do it right. Needs it to work out. And he can't deny the sudden wave of protectiveness that even just the sounds of Bass' breathing are enough to provoke in him.

"Relax," he says, softly, "I've got you."

He pushes in deeper, before drawing back, hoping that this will get a reaction… hoping that it will be a good one.

"Trying," Bass admits, and his voice is strained because he's admitting weakness. Admitting he's not perfect. He doesn't do well at that. Only for Miles. Only for him. "Want to… ah!"

The moving and the friction on his entrance are sort of tingly-weird. Good, but tingly. And it starts a sort of itch for more. Kind of like when he's screwing someone and his dick says 'more', but this is his ass. Which is new. It does make him tense, though, which makes him wince because it's a little bit on the uncomfortable side. But not too much. "Slow… please?" he asks. "But… more." His sides are heaving with how heavy he's breathing. Jeremy's gonna hear him breathing if nothing else. He needs to stop thinking about him. Needs the man to go away, at least for now. Even if he did start this.

More? Fuck, yes. Miles pulls right back, pauses just long enough to make the feeling really noticeable… and then pushes back in, but with both fingers this time. He's still careful, oh yes, but firmer, wanting to give him what he needs. What… they both need.

Because… because soon… yes. Scary. Wonderful. Yes.

Right now… he needs more. Needs to really feel it. Needs… this to be more than just fingers.

_Needs_.

That feels good. More good than weird now. Now that Bass has stopped panicking so much. It's Miles, and Miles will take care of him. Miles will make it good. He can relax in his arms. Safe. He can let go and know he's going to be all right. And the pushing and the pulling… it makes his cock jump up and down with excitement, which makes him laugh at it. Rebellious little beast. Always getting its own way. He drops his head down and… grinds his ass back into Miles' hand. Moaning at how good it feels. How right. Geez.

After a moment… Miles pulls back again. Right out this time. He goes for the lube, using it to slick his cock – and fuck but even that contact threatens to drive him out of his mind – before moving in and lining up and… starting to push in. Slowly. So slowly.

" _Fuck_ … Bass…" Miles gasps. "Just… _fuck_ …"

And then. Fuck fuck fuck. Bass goes completely still because… because he thinks that's not fingers. It feels bigger. Blunt. And he's fairly sure he knows where Miles' hands are. And neither of them is in him. Which means…

"OhfuckMilesyesohfuckohfuckpleasedon'tstoppleasedon'tstoppleasefuckmefuckingfuckme…" Quite when he turned into a babbling beggar… yeah let's not think about it. Let's instead think about how Miles is _fucking him_ up the _ass_ with that fucking amazing dick of his and how it makes lights flash all the way up his spine to the back of his throat and makes his knees weak and fuck, fuck, fuck but he's gay isn't he if he likes this? He whines thin and reedy and thinks it's time he stopped dicking about and with all he can, he slams his hips backwards so Miles is buried to the hilt. Decorum be damned. Much like he is. "FUCK ME, NOW, MILES, PLEASE." Shit. He was supposed to be quiet.

Miles is so completely overwhelmed by how _fucking incredible_ this feels that he doesn't even process that the goddamn _wonderful_ things Bass is saying are also very loud. And quite unmistakeable. A few odd noises, they might have explained away. This? Not a chance.

Not that he cares right now. Not one bit. Not when he's buried deep inside his _fucking best friend_ and why oh why oh fucking why didn't they do this sooner?

" _Fuck_ , Bass!" he cries out, which is when he realises how loud they're being and tries so hard not to say it again. And again. And… fuck. _Fuck_. It's only making the need stronger, and it was pretty damn strong to begin with. Now..? Now he can't hold back, starting to fuck the other man in earnest as soon as he realises that he can. That it's all right. More than all right. More than anything else. Everything else.

He leans in closer, growling in his ear. Knowing how much he'll love that. "You feel fucking wonderful. Fucking wonderful and all mine…"

Bass screams. He screams because Miles is pounding him like a fool and saying delicious things in that voice that tastes like chocolate and whisky and gunpowder and sex. He forgets all about Jeremy, forgets he even exists. Forgets anyone else exists. Because Miles is ramming that deliciously thick, long cock of his into his more than willing ass. Dragging over the tight clench of his hole, and pushing all his insides as it goes. It feels like he's jerking off inside and out, and nothing's even touching his poor, swollen, leaking cock. It feels like Miles is rearranging all his internal furniture to suit, like it'll never be the same and it will always be waiting for him. Waiting for him to fuck the living daylights out of him. And then he sags down onto his forearms and that does something even fucking worse because holy fucking hell what the hell is Miles even _doing_ and what the fuck has his cock just found because Bass screeches like a cat in heat and he's fucking coming but his cock isn't even spurting and what the fuck?

"YOURS," he promises, loud and fierce. "YoursallyoursallyoursMilespleasefuckmeyoursalwaysfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!" He likes that word. It says precisely what he thinks, wants, feels. It even sounds like it. The meaty, bodily flush of skin on skin and the smack when Miles' balls and stomach hit his ass. Fuck. Perfect. Them.

And _fuck_ but the man is so _delicious_ when his mouth runs like that, and it only drives Miles even more insane with need and lust and _love_ , it has to be, nothing else could explain how his whole world just shapes itself around this fucking wonderful man and his fucking wonderful body. He starts moving faster still – the more he does it, the more he can feel it getting easier, becoming all right, becoming so very much more than all right.

He's draped around Bass now, near enough relying on the man to hold him up, because he's got one arm wrapped tight around him, and the other… oh fuck, the other he moves down to grab hold of Bass' cock, starting to stroke furiously hard, as much in time with the thrust of his hips as he can. He wants… to drive the man completely out of his mind. To feel him fall apart like never before. Like the first time. _Better_ than the first time.

"Fuck, you're amazing, you feel _amazing_ , Bass, and I fucking _love_ you for it…"

And oh, but he's said it now, hasn't he? Said it and meant it and any second… the whole world is going to break.

Shit. That's goddamn fucking well not fair. It's in the heat of the moment and all, and he probably doesn't really mean it or something but he said it and Bass is not sure he remembers anyone ever saying it except his family and that's different because family have to love you but your best friend doesn't and he said it and he sounded… sounded like it was the truth and it fucking breaks his heart and snaps something, something long buried and forgotten and put away when he realised it just wasn't going to happen because really he's loved him back all along and they were just brothers. Brothers in arms. Playing at soldiers, then real soldiers, and then… family. Real family. His only family.

And he loves him.

And it all… shatters and underneath it's real.

And Bass is coming. Coming more from the words than the hand on his cock and the cock in his ass. And his heart exits his chest and hammers its way up into his mouth. And he can't say a word, just a single note of triumph and joy. And then he can't make any sound because his lungs stop working and all the air and breath is spurting out of his dick and his whole body is alive and coming all at the same time and this is what sex is. This is it. Not clumsy, vapid, empty fluid exchanges. This is sex. And he's never going to be satisfied with anything less again. "…Miles," he says, but he's really saying 'I love you too and I always did'. It's just that the words are a bit too difficult to find when your mind's just been blown to a million pieces and your best friend… No. Lover. Your lover just ruined you. Somehow – somehow – he manages to stay on his knees for Miles, but his head drops to the floor with a thunk.

And that… that just breaks Miles all at once. "Oh fuck, _Bass_ ," he breathes, like it's a goddamn prayer, and even though he's never had time for any of that faith stuff he could almost believe in a higher power now, because how else do you explain the fucking _rapture_ of this moment?

And with a sharp gasp, he's coming like a fucking freight train, unable to stop or think or breathe, pounding into Bass over and over and over as the pleasure rips through him so hardhotblazingfuckingwonderful, whiting out every last corner of his mind. It seems to go on forever and ever, as if he's balanced on the edge of perfection for an eternity… until it finally comes crashing down, washing through him, and leaving him all but dropping down on top of Bass, trying to hold himself up but not really managing it.

Bass staggers under the weight of him, and one knee slides out, but he tries to keep up as long as he can. Eventually he can't and he just sinks to the ground, shaking like a leaf. He can still feel… still feel how every last spurt from Miles' cock burned into him. How every last little twitch tortured his ragged nerves. You could break someone like that. He thinks maybe Miles did. And now he's lying flat out on top of him, still buried balls-deep in him, his come filling him like his words did. Warm and comforting. Maybe it's not so bad being gay after all. Not if it feels like this. Bass' face is pressed into the ground sheet and he now realises they're still in the tent. And doesn't care.

Cautiously, he slides his arms back to find Miles', wrapped around him. Tries to find his hands, to interlace their fingers.

Breathe. Breathe. You can do this, Bass. You can do this. "I… I… always did. Miles. I… always… did." Fuck it Bass, why can't you say it? Why is it so hard? His hands tighten around Miles'. "I. L-love you. Too." It's liberating and terrifying and the single most frightening thing he ever remembers doing. Lying here, fucked three ways to Sunday, having begged for his ass to be reamed, having kissed him first… and a word he's known but never said is somehow horrifyingly harder. It shouldn't be. But now he's said it it's… done. And he knows it's okay. Knows it's okay to love him. In whatever fucked up excuse for a world they have now… it's fine.

The urge to cover him, to protect him, to just surround him is overwhelming now, and Miles wouldn't dare move even if he thought he could. Not when Bass is saying… when he's saying… and _fuck_ , Miles can feel it now; what this is, how perfect it is, how it's been real, been there, for so long.

This may just be the best moment of his life. Better even than that first night in the barn. Better than anything. And he wants it to last forever. Would happily lie here, in the semi-darkness, forever and ever, if it just meant this moment would never end.

"I know you do," he whispers, so very softly. They're well beyond the point where they could still pretend they were trying to be quiet, but this… this is just for them. Only for them. For him. "I think… I think I've known for a long time."

He holds on, as tight as he can. He wants to say more but he can't… because none of the words even come close enough.

"I… I couldn't… I wouldn't be here without you," Bass says, suddenly able to say things he only barely touches on when extremely drunk. The weight on his chest needs lifting. "Without you… I'd never have made it in the Marines. I'd have never had anyone. I'd have blown my brains out that night and I'd be stuck in that base contemplating doing it right now. You… Miles. Miles you saved me. You saved me and I loved you as soon as I met you and I'm sorry I was all fucked up about it and I'm sorry I lied about all those women to make you jealous and I'm so fucking glad you love me back because if you didn't I think I'd die and I'm not just saying that because you are the single most important thing I've ever, ever known and I'll follow you all the way to fucking Texas if you want me to because… because I'm yours and you're mine and no one and nothing else matters."

Shit. He did just say all that. He pulls Miles' hands closer in against him. "Fuck I'm sorry I'm being such a pussy but you bring it out in me and I think you fucked my brains out onto the floor and if you don't promise you'll do it again I'll think I've died and gone to the worst hell possible. So. Fucking say something because you fucking broke me." And there it is. There's all the shit he's carried around for over twenty years. And it feels so damn liberating to finally let go. And be safe.

Wanted. Loved.

And that's… that's just agonising and precious and beautiful and _fuck_ but he must be gay as a rainbow if he's reacting to it like this. They must both be, but Miles doesn't think he minds or cares or is all that surprised because all he does care about right now is holding onto Bass and never ever letting go.

"I know," he whispers. "Fuck, Bass, I know… and I promise I'll do it again, how could I not when you look and sound and feel and _are_ so fucking wonderful? I've got you and I'm yours and no matter what happens I'm here… I'm _here_ , Bass, and you're home. You're with me."

And he can't say any more because it's just too much, and he thinks it might break him too – no, _again_ – if he does. So he holds on. Holds on like both their lives depend on it.

It really is okay. All these years. And Bass was right. He was right about them. And he was right to want and wait. And it's all okay. And he wishes the power had cut out sooner because a cold beer is nothing like… loving someone and having them love you back. His heart is now flying somewhere above the tent and singing like a fucking fifteen year old girl. And he doesn't give two shits. He wishes his sisters could see him this happy. Well. Maybe the next morning, rather than walk in on him. But maybe they're smiling down on their Bass finally made good. Maybe his Ma and Da have realised Bass was right and he isn't a bad influence after all. (They were never quite sure.)

They need to stop talking now, Bass thinks. Because there's honesty and then there's… well. He doesn't feel like he's hiding anything any more. He feels like he rules the goddamn world. Like he's king of everything. And it's an awesome feeling to have.

Okay maybe one more thing. "Could we maybe roll over a bit… don't go anywhere just… roll onto the side so you can hold me all night?" And he's not even afraid to ask for that. To ask to be… held. Cuddled. Girly shit or no. He wants Miles' arms and legs around him. "Because I think you fucked all the strength out of me so I wouldn't be surprised if I pass out when the adrenaline wears off and I'd like to be able to walk in the morning."

Miles kisses the back of Bass' neck, nipping just slightly. "Of course," he replies. "So long as I have you here… that's all I need."

He starts to shift position a little, trying to get them both more comfortable without breaking contact. Any of it. And it's so very welcome, to just be able to collapse like this. To let the exhaustion and the contentment and the sense of _completion_ wash slowly over him – over them both.

"Well you know I'm not going anywhere. Ever again." Bass is happy to mostly be manoeuvred, because he's not in the best position to do the moving. And also he's suddenly really, really tired. "I really think next time we should invest in a gag, though."

"…That might be a good idea," Miles concedes. "We were supposed to be quiet." A pause. An unnecessary beat, before he adds – also unnecessarily – "That didn't happen. I think they probably heard you in California."

Not that he's complaining. A little vocal appreciation goes a long way.

"Yeah. About that…" Bass stares in the direction of Jeremy's tent, starting to feel guilty. "I… hope you weren't trying to be… well. I think it'll be hard to deny."

"I was… trying to be subtle. I guess we're not doing subtle."

This is… true and not true in about equal measure. Miles _was_ trying to be subtle, out of some sense of decency and decorum and all that jazz. But he was also… trying to make the subtlety unnecessary, so they'd know where they stood.

"I think the part where I was yelling at you to put your dick in me kind of threw subtlety out the window and danced on its grave," Bass points out. "So. Yeah. I… I don't… know how I feel about people knowing, though. I think we might have a hard time ever… not. Letting on."

"I know what you mean," Miles agrees. "Part of me… wanted to keep it quiet. _Wants_ to keep it quiet, and private, and just… just for us. And yet, another part… wants to scream it to the heavens, because _fuck_ , Bass, this is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"I think it might have been better if it happened alongside cold beer," Bass says, secretly very pleased but also highly embarrassed. "I… I … think we should go for something in the middle. Just so we don't end up punching every… you know." Homophobe. He remembers some nasty words he's sometimes said to people. Not that he was ever a gay basher. But he thinks he's probably hurt someone's feelings even accidentally along the way. And he kinda feels shitty about it. "Can… can we think about it tomorrow? I think you fucked my brains out and I just kinda want to lie here recovering for… ever."

Miles laughs softly. Warmly. "Of course. I can't promise to stay conscious for much longer either. Right now, I only want to fall asleep wrapped around you. The rest… can wait until morning."

He pulls Bass in tighter, pressed up against him, letting the darkness rise up; the darkness that surrounds, that pervades; a world changed forever.

And yet… strangely brighter all the same.

***

Bass wakes first. He doesn't always, not any more. He wakes to a dull ache in his calves and his ass, and a sticky, happy warm feeling. He doesn't rush to consciousness like he used to. There's no need to any more. No pressing drills, no boots to polish, no orders to follow. And he revels in the feeling of the heavy warm body behind him. The way Miles breathes just slightly irregularly. The tiny little missing noises that Bass thinks are freaking adorable.

Love. It must be love. You don't start obsessing over the way someone breathes when they're sleeping if you're not head over heels.

He could lie here forever, with Miles snuggling into him. Could lie here until the other man wakes and they could have that slow, lazy morning sex they've grown accustomed to. It isn't always screeching and fireworks. Some days it's just quiet touching and gasping into one another's mouths. It's letting the slow, kindling fire spark and sputter. And he likes that almost as much as the insanely violent, fucked up sex they have. But sadly his bladder has other ideas and he waits as long as he can before he crawls out from Miles' arms. The other man stirs slightly, but Bass presses a soft kiss to his temple and mumbles a reassurance that he won't be long. Miles seems to accept that and goes back to sleep.

Bass' legs protest though, and he remembers with slow pride how great last night had been. How… how Miles had said those things. And he'd replied. And they'd… fucked. Properly. Not that the other times hadn't been mind-blowingly amazing, but last night… he knows it was special. Wincing, he pulls his fatigues up over his legs and loosely fastens the belt to hold them up. His ass stings but in a nice way, and he hopes he'll feel like that all day long because it will remind him of last night and make his cock strain against his pants until they get to do it again. He's very, very glad he thought to steal the lube. He wonders where he can get more.

It's in the middle of all this internal discussion that he finally pushes the flap of the tent back and locks eyes immediately with the other man. Jeremy. Baker, isn't it? Jeremy looks like hell. His face is showing the beating he took, and his movements are ginger and stiff. And worse, he looks like he hasn't slept. The dark circles under his eyes, the way exhaustion is in every line of his body. He's packing up what little belongings he seems to have, and for a minute Bass thinks the man's going to run like a rabbit.

"…Hey," he says, failing to see what else he could say. "We got an hour at least before we have to start off."

Jeremy winces, and can't look him in the eye. He was hoping to get away before either of them woke. And considering he knows how energetic they were last night, he'd thought he'd have at least a small chance of success.

"It's okay. Thanks for… thanks for saving me. But I really should get going. You've been great. Better than I could have hoped for."

Shit. Bass could let him go. Could let the man run off and lie to Miles that he didn't see him go, or that he tried to talk him into staying. But… he shouldn't lie to Miles. Not again. And Miles wanted to look after this guy and if their relationship is going to work it has to be based on complete trust and equal footing.

"You don't have to go," Bass offers, trying not to sound like he wants to add 'but please do' to the end. "And you probably won't get that far looking like you went ten rounds with a bear."

That stings. Jeremy bites his lip hard, embarrassed enough about the fact he had to be saved from random brutes. He doesn't need this man who doesn't even want him around reminding him.

"Yeah, I think I do. I've already overstayed my welcome and I'll just hole up for a while until I know it's safe and then I'll be back on my way."

"On your way where?" Bass decides now is the perfect time to go over to him, to offer to help packing. Even if he's not going, his stuff will need to be packed to go with them.

"I don't know. A suburb. A cave in the middle of nowhere. I hadn't really thought that far ahead."

Bass smiles. "I know. And you don't seem to have much in the way of field training. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I doubt you know how to catch and kill your dinner. And there's gonna be more people like those two dickheads just waiting to reduce the competition. Miles and I are – were – Marines. We know a bit about survival and letting you run off to starve would be even crueller than beating you to death."

Jeremy's cheeks hurt with how pink they are. "I'll be fine." Even if the words sting because they're true. "You don't need to tell him. You can just pretend I ran off and you didn't know. I'm… just in the way."

Bass sighs. Why does he have to be the noble one? He thought this was more Miles' job. "I'm not gonna lie. We had a good thing going before you showed up. Still do, I hope. But Miles convinced me that there has to be more to this than just… surviving. You have to have a life, not just be alive."

He hitches up the front of his fatigues from his feet, and drops to the floor next to Jeremy. He winces a bit at how that feels but tries not to be any more blatantly obvious. "We're going to Chicago, to meet his brother. I don't know what we're gonna do when we get there, but we're probably gonna try and make a life for ourselves. You could come with us. We could show you a thing or two about survival. And if you feel you're ready to go your own way or you find somewhere you wanna be, we'll part ways. But at least give us the chance to help you or I'll never forgive myself."

Jeremy listens. He's not looking at Bass, because he doesn't think he could stay if he did. But… he listens. And then he nods. "Okay. I… yeah. That might be good. I could learn a thing or two from you and maybe be able to fend for myself. I don't really wanna die out in a forest on my own."

Bass pats him on the back in a manly way. Like men do. "Good. Hopefully you'll find what it is you're supposed to do on the way. It's not like any of us planned for this."

Jeremy nods again. His eyes inadvertently go over to the tent where Miles is sleeping. Wonders if he should say… "It's not because of. You know. You two. That I was going to leave. I… I don't have a problem with it if you were worried about it."

Shit. Yeah. Bass' smile fixes into place. He stares at the tent too.

"You know, before the power went out… we knew one another the longest time. Since we were kids. And then we enlisted together and we've always… been there for one another. It took the lights going out for us to… work out what that meant."

Bass has the decency to look to see if Jeremy's uncomfortable. "I'm… sorry about last night. I was angry at him for picking you up because we didn't know a thing about you. And because it's always just been us. So it's… new to have someone else around. But I can't expect him to stay in a tent with me for the rest of our lives, even if it would be fun. He'd get bored and we need to find his brother. So you came along at the right time, before my selfishness got the better of me."

"I… listen I understand," Jeremy offers. "And if you decide you want me to go, you just gotta say the word and I'll leave. But I don't really care what the two of you get up to so long as you keep me alive. I… I can tell you're good people. And I'm really grateful you found me."

He holds out his hand. "I'm Jeremy Baker. And I'm really pleased to meet you. I'd like to get to know you, if you'd like to do the same?"

Bass smiles, relieved. "I'm Sebastian Monroe, and the snoring oaf who found you is Miles Matheson. And I hope we'll get along just fine." He takes Jeremy's hand and shakes it.

He's not so bad after all.

"…Did I hear you taking my name in vain?" comes Miles' voice from the other tent, seconds before he emerges, wearing trousers but nothing else. He must be glowing. He _feels_ like he's glowing. He almost wishes he could tone it down a bit so as to pull off something more subtle… but the world clearly has other ideas.

He paces over to the other two, around the remnants of last night's campfire, dropping down opposite them.

"Hey," he says to Jeremy. "How're you feeling this morning?"

He doesn't ask Bass. He doesn't need to ask Bass. One look in the man's eyes is answer enough.

Bass is trying very hard not to stare. Miles is walking around topless and it's a chill morning and his nipples are doing that perky thing they do when he's cold or aroused or both. And his hair does that adorable thing on his chest and on his head and fuck but he has to look down at Jeremy's bag and try to will down his erection because that's so totally inappropriate and no wonder the man wants to leave.

"Sore," Jeremy admits, seemingly not noticing how uncomfortable Bass is all of a sudden. "But alive. Thanks to you." He looks a bit… sheepish. And there's something else in his eyes which is impossible to pin down properly.

"Don't mention it," Miles says, lightly. Though he means it, too – he really doesn't want to think about _that_ part of yesterday ever again. "You were pretty out of it when we made camp. You planning to stick around, like I said?"

"Yeah. Uh. Bass said you two used to be soldiers or something, and maybe you'd be able to teach me how… not to get beaten to a pulp in future. Afraid I must have skipped those classes of gym."

"I'm… gonna get some fresh water," Bass offers. His voice is strained because he thinks he needs to go dunk his dick in a lake to make it behave.

"Good plan," Miles says, trying to meet eyes with Bass before he goes. Seeing if he can do this subtleness thing and suspecting the answer is probably 'hell, no.'

"That's right," he goes on, turning his attention back to Jeremy. Maybe if he focuses on sensible, responsible, operational matters, he can get his mind back in some sort of order. And stop thinking about shoving Bass up against the nearest tree, regardless of who's watching. "I'm sure we can teach you a thing or two about self-defence, once you've healed up."

Bass gets the message, but he shakes his head just once, fast, and darts off to deal with his… problem.

Leaving Jeremy and a different topless man. "I'd… I mean I'd like it a lot. I know it's a lot to ask because you're both so cool and everything but I can probably… I don't know. Fetch and carry. I'm good at following orders. You can get me to do stuff for you." There's an ever so slightly smitten tone to his voice, but you have to be listening to hear it. It's also in the way Jeremy's attention's turned completely to Miles. Miles. Who saved him.

For the moment, at least, Miles is completely oblivious to any of the undertones – too distracted by other thoughts, though he is glad to see the man doing better.

"You don't have to do anything special. Just pitch in. We have to work together to get somewhere in this brave new world – and we'll be glad to have you along."

"I mean it though, I know I won't be pulling my weight for a while so just… use me. I don't want to be a burden so I'll learn as fast as I can. I can be like your new recruit or something," Jeremy offers. "I can be like Private Baker and we'll be like three cowboys or something."

Miles laughs a little. "I doubt it'll get that exciting. But we do our best."

He turns whilst he's talking, starting to build up the campfire again before looking for the flint and steel to get it going. And oh, but he makes it look so easy… but he's had too much practice not to, especially after the hideous experience of his very first field exercise, way back when.

"Can… can you show me that?" Jeremy says, staring in fascination. "I tried with sticks a few times and with lenses but I always just gave up when I ran out of lighters."

"Sure," Miles replies, gesturing him over, "come here." He waits for Jeremy to move and then starts showing him what to do; how to hold the flint and steel and how to strike it to get it to spark just right.

Jeremy tries. He does. He tries a few times and then he gets frustrated. And nearly throws it all down. "I… I'm no good at this… fuck. You make it look so easy and I can't even make it spark right."

"Hey, give it time. It takes practice. First time they chucked us out in a field in the dark, back at boot camp… I spent an entire night trying to get it to work. I don't think I've ever been so cold. Here…"

He moves in closer, guiding Jeremy's hands, helping him get a better angle.

This makes Jeremy blush a bit because Miles is still topless and he's being all nice and Jeremy really sucks at this and he knows he's not patient. "Yeah but it was night so it was probably loads harder," he says, mumbling a little.

"True, but at least you don't have to contend with a CO who had you doing push-ups in the mud every half hour until you got it right. So that's something."

"…if you do that to me I'm leaving, just so you know. I'd rather take my chances with the big wide world." And then Miles moves his hands right and it sparks and Jeremy nearly jumps out of his skin.

"See?" Miles says, grinning. "You're getting the hang of it already." He lets go, but doesn't move back just yet. "Try it again."

Jeremy tries again. It fails the first two times and then it works and he lets out a little cheer of success. "See! You're a great teacher, Miles. Did you have loads of people following you in the army?"

"Not loads, but some. I was a squad leader by my second tour in Afghanistan, and through both tours in Iraq."

Now the fire's going, he starts to stoke it a little more. Always better to be doing something useful.

"Was Bass one of your… were you his boss?" Jeremy asks. He holds out pieces of dry wood in case Miles wants them.

"No, we were the same rank. Served side-by-side, all the way through. Became sort of a running joke that you couldn't promote one without the other. And now… here we are."

"Did you turn down promotions to… stay with him?" Jeremy asks. He's a bit surprised that Miles wasn't the commanding officer, but he files that away too under 'loyal to his friends'.

"Thankfully, it never came to that, though he'd have killed me if I'd done it. Hell, I'd have killed him if he'd done it. But we were NCOs. We weren't in it to be career officers. We were in it to get the job done. Serve our country."

"I think you'd make a great officer, though. You're really patient. Most… most people aren't good at teaching me things because I get frustrated." Jeremy doesn't know why he's telling him this. "So… you two can practice being my officer. Because I want to help you find your brother."

"We have a long way to go yet." It really has taken far more time than expected… though part of that may be down to the days they spent holed up in that barn. And all the other resultant delays. "We'll have you trained up in no time. You're a faster learner than you think."

"How far a walk is it? When do you think we'll get there? I've never done anything like this before I just sort of left home and wandered… it's sorta cool to have a mission."

"Further than I expected," Miles answers, wryly. "If we could have kept a steady pace we'd probably have been there weeks ago, but we're spending far more time focusing on surviving and resource-gathering than anticipated. I'm skirting us round Cincinnati but I reckon Indianapolis is going to be unavoidable without a massive detour. At the rate we're going… it's going to be at least six weeks, maybe two months."

And when they do actually get there, he's got to find Ben… and if the man's got any sense, he'll have fled the city already. Which is going to make locating him even more difficult.

"Two months… wow. Okay. And how long have you been walking so far?" Two months is longer than Jeremy thought. But he supposes it makes sense in this day and age.

"Well we set off eight weeks after the lights went out," Bass says, as he walks up to the camp. He has several waterbottles – some on strings around his neck. His naturally curly hair is slicked back and he looks like he might have jumped in the lake because he still looks faintly wet in patches. But a lot less aroused. For now. "Oh good, you got the fire going. Are we on rabbit stew?"

Miles looks happy when Bass comes back – it's unmistakeable to anyone who cares to look, even though he's just talking logistics. "I guess so, unless you found any fish whilst you were jumping about in the water."

Jumping about in the water, with it running all over your bare skin, making your hair do that oh-so-adorable thing it's doing now and…

…oh fuck, Miles, focus already!

"Well it's possible it was fish that were tickling my legs but I've not yet fathomed how you stroke them out of the water so you're gonna have to make me a rod if you want fish supper. Or a net, maybe. And then I don't even know how you de-bone one so can we just stick to food that's not likely to kill us?"

"I can try making a net," Jeremy offers. "Miles might know how to gut a fish."

"…Maybe rabbit would just be easier…" Miles says, shaking his head at the pair of them. "I still have enough stored from the last time, although we're gonna need to go hunting again in the next day or two."

"Rabbit's good for me," Bass says, looking at Jeremy weirdly. "I also saw a blackberry bush up by the lake. Jeremy, do you think if we set you going on stew you'd be all right while we go get some? Some of the uh, bushes are a bit tall."

Even though Jeremy is slightly taller than Miles. And Bass isn't really much shorter.

"Cool, yeah, I can do that. I used to be okay at cooking so I think maybe it could be my thing. You just leave it to me!"

Bass has the decency to smile weakly at Miles. It is a damn thin excuse.

A very damn thin excuse. The trouble is, Miles doesn't look even remotely ashamed.

"I like blackberries…" he says. "Sounds like a plan to me."

Well. At least they're trying. Sort of.

***

It really is no wonder they're not getting anywhere fast. But nevertheless, come nightfall they have at least made some headway. They make camp within the borders of a sparse forest, cooking and eating what food they've got left before retreating to the tents as the darkness sets in.

Thankfully Jeremy has had the decency to pick a place to put his tent up slightly further away tonight. Bass tried to show him how to do it but his lack of patience won out and Miles had to come over and rescue them. Bass won't admit it but Jeremy's stubbornness is similar to his own.

So it's a sort of mixed mood that Bass is in when they sneak into their own tent. Mixed because he's still not sure about people tagging along but at least the guy doesn't seem to mind the fact that they are… well. Fucking. Speaking of. When he gets into the tent he's not quite sure what to do. They always sort of fall into one another, and they don't really plan anything ever. But Bass has been thinking about this all day. And now he's not sure what to do.

"We sort of made progress today," he says, in lieu of actual feelings stuff. Or sex stuff. Because he's suddenly nervy again. He sits on the end of his bedroll and starts to pull his boots off.

"We did," Miles agrees, in the middle of doing the same. He's not oblivious, though, and he can tell Bass is in something of a mood… though precisely what kind, he's not sure yet. "Just don't ever admit to anyone how long this trip took us. We'll never hear the end of it."

"We're going to have to come up with some fantastic reason why it took us forever, like we ran into orcs and an invisible goblin and some evil dragons and horses or some shit," Bass suggests. When both of their boots are off he takes them and puts them in the little doorway flap to keep them dry but also not smelling in the tent.

This is a little telling. Miles drops down onto his bedroll, lying on his side with his head propped on one arm, looking over at Bass. "What is it?" he asks, carefully.

"What's what?" Bass asks, when he comes back in. He tries to smile winningly.

Miles is not fooled. "What's with you? You're acting weird."

Bass opens his mouth to say something aloof and funny and disarming, and then he shuts it.

Then he tries again. And fails.

A third time… "…does this mean I'm the catcher?"

"…The catcher?" Miles repeats, looking a little confused by the question.

"Uhm. Pitcher. Catcher. You know." Bass shrugs, embarrassed he's having to use… you know. Terms.

Oh. _Oh_. Damn, this would be so much easier if they still had the internet. Even though Miles hated the internet. It had its uses.

Which means Bass is asking… yes. Right. Well, it had to come up sooner or later – most likely sooner, especially knowing them. And it's… a strange thing to be contemplating. Even after last night. Strange and sort of a little scary and suchlike… so why the words come tumbling unchecked, Miles isn't sure.

"It doesn't have to be the same way every time. I mean, I'm sure that works for some people and all, but… there's no reason why we can't… you know…"

The thought is… filling him with adrenaline even now. But it's more than that. He thinks… he might like it. There's no denying that he likes it when Bass gets all possessive with him. He's liked it since that first time in the barn, when the man had him pinned to the floor and goddamn _begging_ and it was like nothing he'd ever done before and weird and threatening and _goddamn fucking amazing_.

So why should… this… be any different? Why shouldn't it be _even better_?

Bass tugs at his collar. It's making him hot even thinking about it. Hot and uncomfortable and slightly… confused. But also a little turned on.

"I… think I'd like to. You know. Because I really enjoyed it so I think maybe you would too. I might not be great at it to start with but I learn quickly. F…" He was going to say 'Faster than Jeremy', but the thought of racing him to see who's better in bed makes him irrationally angry.

Miles reaches out, pulling Bass in, a hand on his face once he's close enough. "Then… do," he offers. And smiles just a little. "How could I refuse you?"

And he's not shaking. Even if only a little. On account of not at all. And if he was… it would just be arousal. Which would be understandable.

Bass laughs and it's two breaths from hysterical. Because Miles said okay. Because they're going to… because he'll let him… he leans in and puts a hand high up on the man's thigh. Noses over Miles' nose. Laughs into his lips. "Can we go… slow?" He chews over his own bottom lip. "I… I like fast. But I kind… of… want to take my time with you. I want… it to be…" he leans in to talk into his ear, a low whisper full of promise, "…special."

And that sends shivers all the way up – well, technically _down_ – Miles' spine, making him put a hand up on Bass' hip, just… wanting to make sure he'll stay close. Even though he doesn't doubt it for a second.

"Please," he whispers. "I want you to. I want _you_ , Bass."

Bass moves slow but sure, like a big cat intent on his prey. The hand stays on Miles' thigh, stroking slow circles. The other hand goes to his throat, stroking over his adam's apple, down to his collarbones. Down to the buttons, which he opens one by one. "God, you have no idea how crazy you make me. I stare at your mouth, your eyes, your hands, your shoulders, your ass… I look at you and I don't know how I don't just strip you naked in front of him and fuck you where he can see, so he knows you're mine and he can't poach…"

He kisses under Miles' ear. Scrapes teeth. "I don't want to fuck you. I want to own you. I want to take you. I want to make love to you until you know you're never anyone else's." He can't do the Miles voice, but he doesn't do too badly in the gravelly sexy purr department himself. "I want to brand my name on your ass so you know it's mine."

And damn, but that's doing terrible things to the inside of Miles' head. Terrible, dangerous, fucking wonderful things. "All of me is, Bass," he whispers, and it's clear he's caught. Caught, and not even thinking of trying to escape, even though his heart is hammering in his chest. "All of me."

He slides a hand up around the back of Bass' neck, carefully pulling him down so they're forehead to forehead. No force or presumption in the action, just… wanting the contact. "Tell me what you want," he whispers. "Tell me what you want me to do, Bass."

"I want you to sit back and let me drive," Bass asks, letting Miles pull him in. "I want to hear you struggling to keep breathing. I want to hear you gasping out my name." The hand works its way down, unravelling all of his shirt, exposing his chest. He slides his palm over Miles' stomach, up and up to a nipple which he brushes slowly with his thumb. "I want to kiss and lick you until you're begging me for my cock," he says, feeling bolder by the reactions. "And only then will I let you have it. When I know you can't live without it."

" _Fuck_ ," Miles breathes, those words going right through him and leaving him breathless. And shameless. And… overwrought with need; a need which bypasses everything else and goes for that place right in the back of his mind, the place that knocks the pride and the resistance out of him altogether, making him… making him _want_ to give in, even though the rest of him is hardwired never to do any such thing.

"Yes… please, Bass… just… that. All of that. Please."

"Take your shirt off," Bass orders, still toying with his nipple, and stroking his thigh. He wonders how much he can order the man to do. Wonders… how much control and power he has. "Now."

Miles does as he's told, even though it isn't wonderfully easy in this position. Logistical downsides don't change the fact that he obeys without hesitating… though it does perhaps help that it's something he's more than happy to do anyway. _More_ than happy.

Unless… that's part of it too. This feeling. This need to want what Bass wants.

Bass sits back enough to let him, and when Miles is done obeying, he rewards him with fingernails scraping from sternum to navel. "God damn but you're gorgeous, Miles. I don't know why I don't have to fight anyone for you. You could kill people with a body like this."

Then he grabs Miles' face, and smashes him in for a quick, dirty, nasty kiss full of biting and tongues and hunger. And when he's done, he grabs Miles' belt and starts yanking it off. Slow he might be doing. Lazy he is not.

Fuck, but that feels so good. Miles nigh-on moans into the kiss, the need building gradually higher and higher and making him feel a little insane with it.

"…Because I'm _yours_ ," he says, such fervour in his voice. "And I know it. And I'd break anyone who tried to take me away from you."

"You'd have to get in line because I'd kill them," Bass insists. And because he has the man's pants open, he grabs Miles' cock to make a point. "This is mine. All mine. In me or not. I'm going to make you wish you were a girl because you wish you could come over and over and over…"

Now it's time for slow, sucking kisses down his throat. Marking him. He knows he's marking him. He wants to. He strokes Miles' cock slowly, surely. Wanting to make sure the man is ready for this.

"Oh fuck, Bass, Bass, _please_ ," Miles cries, arching under all that sensation, and fuck, but he really is shaking now; shaking and desperate and utterly out of his head. "Please."

He wants to touch the man back but suddenly realises that he doesn't quite dare, not beyond still holding onto him with one hand – just holding, not moving, just wanting the grounding. Needing it like oxygen. Needing it like he needs that hand on his cock, driving him wild in a way he can't resist.

"What do you want, Miles?" Bass asks, sounding eminently reasonable. And fucking dangerous. Still those slow, sure strokes. Purring under his chin. Licking. Nibbling. "Ask me and maybe I'll be nice." He twists his hand then, on his dick, and holds it tight and still.

Miles feels like he could come from just that. Not that he'd fucking dare. Not for one second. And it's pure, beautiful, white-hot agony to hold on.

" _Please_ ," he gasps, brokenly. Out of his head. Off his head. "Please, Bass, I'm begging you to fuck me. I'm yours. I'll do anything. Please."

Oh but that feels good. That feels almost as good as the touching. Hearing Miles beg. Hearing him lose it completely. Hearing him… want him. Bass' voice is slightly distant when he talks next. "I'm going to let go. And you're going to strip yourself. And then you're going to fetch the lube, and open my trousers with your teeth." He sounds eminently reasonable. And like if you disobeyed him it would be the worst idea you ever had.

Through a very thick mental fog, Miles is vaguely aware that he should not be enjoying this as much as he is. Should not. But he is, and he doesn't think he could resist now, even if he tried. Which is not good soldiering, although if his only weakness is an inability – or unwillingness – to fight back when Bass gets demanding… well. That's hardly going to be a problem now, is it?

So he continues to do as he's told; stripping, locating the lube (good thing he thought to put it somewhere easy to get to this time) and then…

Well, how do you strip another man with your teeth? It's probably something he should know how to do, in case of… in case of needing to do it. Because these are things he has to consider now. Or would, if he was capable of coherent thought. So he moves in and has a damn good try… and what do you know, apparently it's easier than he realised, and oh fuck don't start thinking about the other things he could be doing whilst he's down here…

Bass senses the hesitation and grabs the back of Miles' head. He frees himself from his boxers, and then forces Miles' face against his cock. Fuck but that feels good. The temptation to shove Miles down onto it and make him suck him off is incredibly strong, but he has to resist. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asks him. "You're such a slut for my cock that you want to suck it. Well, you can't. Not tonight. I've got other plans."

He lets go of Miles' head. "Straddle my legs. Kneel upright. And put your hands on your head." Maybe it's a good thing he never was a CO, if ordering people about makes him feel so damn… alive.

Fuck, but that makes Miles dizzy with need, and he just about manages to obey without collapsing under the mental weight, shaking and desperate and is that _fear_ at the back of his head, now? Fear does not get to be a part of his life. Does not get to rule him. Does not get to control him. Ever. Except…

Except, if Bass wants it to. Which… means it's OK. It has to be. Even though he doesn't want to let on that it's there.

"Please," he breathes, and the moment he does, he knows the emotion is too obvious, and there's nothing he can do about it. "Please."

"Don't worry," Bass says, and his voice is gentler, now, soothing. "I'll make you so fucking happy, Miles. I'll make you so happy. It's all I want in the world."

And fuck, but that's a sight. His strong, tough soldier, naked and exposed for him. Kneeling over him, waiting. He takes a moment to admire, and then he strokes a palm softly over the side of Miles' face. "Now you gotta tell me if it gets too much, okay? I don't want you pretending from some macho bullshit reason. I told you I've not done this before so we both have to be careful."

The lube snaps open with a thunk that's almost final. He pours some onto his hand and works it around, getting the feel for it. A hand on Miles' hip. The other… reaching behind. He has to sit quite high up for this, and his clothed chest brushes Miles' naked one. "Promise me, Miles. Promise me or I'm not gonna fucking do it." A single finger, teasing his entrance. Maybe he should have asked sooner. Maybe that would have been wise.

"I promise," Miles answers, the second Bass stops speaking. So fast, it's almost hard to work out where one man's sentence ends and the other's begins. "I promise, Bass."

If he was in his right mind, he might be a little concerned by how easily he caves, how easily he gives in and offers the other man everything he asks. How thoroughly that voice gets inside his head and just flicks a little switch, making him…

…Making him _this_. Compliant. Willing. Not just begrudging acquiescence but wholehearted _surrender_.

"Please," he whispers again. "Please. I need you."

"You've got me," Bass whispers against his naked chest, watching the flesh goosepimple and shiver under his words. Oh it feels so amazing. And he's not even really started yet. He slides one arm around Miles' waist to hold him steady, and the other he uses between Miles' legs. He's warm there, warm and willing. Bass remembers how this feels so he wants to share it. Wants Miles to feel like he did. But he's almost terrified of breaking the man, of going too hard, too fast, and shattering this moment. So with great reluctance he slowly eases one lone finger in. Miles' body resists at first, and he remembers that feeling too. And the one a moment later when his body stops fighting and embraces the intrusion.

"I'm going to crawl right into you, under your skin. I'm going to touch you all the way inside like you touched me. We're brothers. More than brothers. And we'll always do everything together." He crooks that finger, bending it at the knuckle, twisting it slowly inside him. "I'd die for you. I'd _kill_ for you."

Miles arches back in shock at that, the sensation… not at all what he'd imagined and about a thousand times more intense, and if there's any electricity left in the world, he'd swear it was flooding through his body right now. For a long moment, he stays like that, managing not to scream (though it's not exactly an easy feat), head right back, hands still in place.

And then… then his head drops forward, to meet eyes with Bass again, and Miles' own are _dark_. Not just pleasure-shot, not just reacting to the low light. _Dark_. He stares down at his friend, his lover, his _brother_ , shaking and already wrecked and yet absolutely, utterly certain.

" _I'd kill for you too_." I have. I will again.

"I could ask you to kill Jeremy," Bass suggests. Only mostly joking. And then he winds that finger in a slow, sure, firm circle. "Would you?" he asks. He doesn't really want him to but he'd… like to know that it was on the table.

" _Anything_ ," Miles breathes, and oh but he sounds utterly _raptured_ again. "Just say the word."

And yes, if he was in his right mind… he might flip out a little at having said that. But he'd flip out far more about having meant it.

What the fuck is wrong with him? And why the fuck doesn't he want it to ever stop?

Bass surges in to kiss him. Hard. So hard he wants to burn all the oxygen out of him. Wants to eat every last breath. Fuck but this man is so perfect. He pulls him in tight so their bodies press, length to length, and shoves another finger in. This one is harder, faster. He wants to be gentle but he's… he can't help but be brutal. He breaks the kiss only to bite hard on Miles' lip. "Fuck yourself. Fuck yourself on my hand like you mean it. Put your hands on my shoulders and ride my fingers until you need my cock so hard you want to cry."

Miles kisses him back for as long as he can – again not out of presumption, but because he wants to give him everything. The second finger makes him moan in shocked, desperate need, right against Bass' lips, trying to beg him for more without words.

And then… well. There's that. And there's nothing quite like a welcome, direct order to a soldier. Even one this far detached from every aspect of reality except the man in front of him. His hands move from his head to Bass' shoulders, holding on (grounded and safe and _right_ , so very right) and then… he's riding those two fingers like nothing else matters, the need so intense he can barely breathe. He wants to beg right now… but he won't. Not out of pride. Not out of stubbornness. But because he knows Bass wants him to last.

Which is amazing to watch. Like. Completely amazing. Bass just wishes he could see his fingers vanishing into Miles' greedy little ass, but he knows they are and can imagine what it looks like and that's almost as good. Instead he gets to make eye contact. To stare deep into his eyes, wanting to see everything there is to see. He's barely breathing himself, and the way Miles occasionally bumps into his groin is doing shit for his self-control.

He keeps the arm around his waist, wanting to make sure Miles doesn't fall off, wanting to feel the flex in his muscles when he goes all out. Holy crap but that's hot.

"Wait," Bass says, and waits for him to stop. And when he does, he thinks it's time for finger number three. "Go." Fuck. How much can he fit in this guy's ass? Another day, Bass. Another day. Today is the day of ramming his cock in, nothing more.

"Please," Miles whispers, brokenly, in that brief pause, trying to catch his breath. And then again, after the pause, louder and more urgent and no less needy. " _Please_. Fuck, Bass, please. Fuck me. I'll do anything. Anything!"

He doesn't know how much more he can take… only that he'll push himself right past breaking point in order to find out. All of him is long since lost in this, in the knot of terror and ecstasy deep in his chest, undeniable and all-pervading and so completely beyond his control.

"Anything," Bass echoes, but as a promise, not a demand. One last cruel twirl of his fingers and then he pulls his hand out. And grabs him bodily by the hips. A little work to line them up and then he's pulling him down, letting gravity do the rest.

Bass has to close his eyes at that. How… tight Miles is. How he squeezes around his dick. How his thighs shake. He focuses on his breathing, trying hard not to come straight off. Which he wants to. "Wait," he orders again, and pulls the man more tightly onto him. "Hold on to this feeling. I want you to remember it tomorrow. And the day after. And all the days. I want you to remember…"

"Forever," Miles promises him, and fuck but he means it. Even if they never did this again – and he's sure they will – he'd want to hold onto it for the rest of his life. This moment. This instant. This… perfect connection that seems to pull him apart, body and soul, leaving him open and stripped bare… all for Bass. All for him.

He feels… like he's breaking in two. Like the whole world is going to shatter completely around them, so that Bass can pick the pieces up, and remake reality just the way he wants.

"Yours," Miles whispers. "Fuck me. Take me. Please."

Bass grabs one of Miles' hands, laces their fingers together. Holds it tight. The other still wrapped around his waist. "I will. Until you can't see for wanting," he promises. And then he urges the man to lift up – slowly – and sink down.

And oh, but that's… compared to before, it's…

…like nothing else could ever be, nor will it. It's lightning, fireworks, the open road, a storm at sea… pure electricity. Electricity that can't be stopped, can't be halted, can't be taken away.

Not now, not ever. And Miles would kill anyone who tried.

"Please," he whispers again, the desperation really creeping in now.

Oh god. It's like coming home. Home. Here. In a tent. In the middle of who the fuck knows where. With their adopted child who is taller than both of them. Without power, without structure, without any mission but 'find Ben'. And Bass is home. Because of this terrible, wonderful man. This man who's burning a red-hot brand mark around his prick. Who swallowed his soul whole the day he kissed him back. Fuck.

He yanks Miles, up, and slams him down harder this time. His hips arching to meet him. Aching for more. "Let go, Miles," Bass orders. And again, yanks him up so he can fuck up into him. He knows he's not going to be able to keep this position up long but he wants to for as long as he can.

"I have, Bass," Miles answers, though he can barely get the words out now, his voice utterly wrecked. "I promise. Please… please just take me because it feels like I'll die if you don't…"

He holds on tighter, needing every inch of contact. Needing the grounding. Needing needing needing needing like nothing ever before and it's so fuckingly wonderfully terrifying that he can't articulate it but he knows it, knows it deep at his core, as undeniable and irresistible as gravity and a thousand times stronger.

Bass drops Miles' hand and supports his shoulders. The better to do what he wants to do next. Which is slam the man onto his cock as hard as possible, and then shift them suddenly so he's dropped Miles (mostly gracefully, very carefully) onto his back. Then he grabs Miles' knees and shoves them up and apart, bending the man near double. His nails dig in as he gets the angle just right… to start ploughing in as fast as his hips will allow.

"Stroke it," Bass orders, not saying what it is. "But don't you dare come. Don't you come until I say you can. NOW."

Miles does not need telling twice. All of a sudden he's on his back with Bass on top of him and _fuck_ but that's doing even worseworsewonderfulterribleyes things to the back of his head… so the moment the order comes, he doesn't even need to think about it. He just obeys, grabbing hold of his own cock and starting to stroke it hard and fast and… and if he was sensible, maybe he'd be trying to take this at least a little slow… but he's so far past sensible that he doesn't stand a chance.

He bites his lip, and holds on – though it's only the force of the order keeping him grounded. Keeping him here.

"Please, Bass," he gasps, and they're the only words he can get out now; a plea and his name, whispered like a prayer. "Please."

"Tell me you love me," Bass demands. It's not fair. Not fair to use sexual torture to get what he wants. But when has the man ever been fair? "Tell me how much you love me, and I'll let you come." Mainly because it's becoming hard to hold back himself. And he wants to feel Miles give around him before he follows him over the edge. There's… something sharp and cruel and at the same time loving in his eyes. Terrible, possessive love.

Words. Words are so hard right now. Obedience and action… Miles can do. But words… words are difficult.

But… it's for him. And for him… no effort is too much.

"I love you," Miles gasps – cries, almost. Hovering on the edge of agony and ecstasy and certain that, at any second, he's going to fall. And knowing that he has no say in the matter. "I love you, Bass. I've always loved you… even when I didn't know it. When I didn't understand it. The truth was still there… and now it's all yours, all yours just as I am… now and forever…"

With his free hand, he reaches up, holding on, needing not to let go. "I love you," he says again, voice cracking. "I need you. I'm yours, completely, utterly…"

And he can't say any more. Can't get out another word. All he can do is hope that it was enough.

Bass cries out in tortured glee. Tortured because keeping a lid on his own needs and reactions is driving him out of his mind. Glee because… Miles. Miles. Says it all really. Fingernails rake bloody paths down from Miles' ass towards his knees, scraping the flesh raw in thin, sharp lines. "MINE," he yells, caution way out in the wind again. " _Now_ ," he says next, because he can't vocalise full sentences right now. At all. It's all needwantfuckyesloveMilesNOW. Wild like the wind over open fields. Like the thickness in the air before a storm. Like the way he's fucking his best friend and more. He pushes Miles even further bent, and slams into him mercilessly, needing the frictionheatpainslapNOW. Almost as much as he needs to feel Miles go.

And Miles just _shatters_ , and with a broken cry of ecstasy, he's coming harder than he ever has in his life, arching painfully hard against the ground and against Bass, agony and want and bliss and need and fear and certainty and _love_ all breaking at once like a tsunami against a rocky shore, a torrent that floods him, body and soul, whiting out the rest of existence. Everything. Everything but them.

"FUCK, BASS, YES!" he screams, both arms dropping back to the ground, spread and open and accepting and _wanting_ this and only this.

Bass does what he can. Tries to keep reaming the man with all what little strength he has left. Tries to keep pounding through every last aftershock. But his Miles is making indecent sounds and clenching and squirming and screaming his name in a way that will never, ever get old. And he shakes his head and with an echoing yell of "MILES!" he's coming too. Over and over in waves that feel like they'll never stop. Making more than a few indecent noises of his own as he pours himself into Miles' ass. Until there's nothing left, and he's utterly spent.

With what little sense he has left, he throws a knee to one side, shifts his weight, and rolls them over so he's on his back and has Miles draped on top of him. Where he proceeds to wrap his arms and legs to blanket him. To hold him in close. His Miles. He thinks maybe he said that aloud too. But his head is so fucked he can't tell.

Miles is far too out of it to react, and just lets himself be moved without the slightest hesitation. He can't speak, can't think. Can't do anything but let Bass hold him and hold him back as though his life depended on it. Maybe it does.

That was… more perfect than anything else has ever been. More perfect than anything else could ever be. He lies where he's moved, breathing ragged, needing to lift his head to meet the other man's eyes, but not yet capable of it. Needing reassurance that he did everything he could. Needing… to know that Bass is as happy as Miles is right now. Even if he can't articulate a word of it.

Bass senses some of it, but he's incredibly wiped out too. But he knows enough to keep touching. Knows how raw and vulnerable he felt. And wants to make sure Miles doesn't sink into post-coital depression. So everywhere they touch, he pets. Strokes with toes over the inside of an ankle. Hand over the small of his back (and fuck, but his cock is still buried in there somewhere, and he wonders if he pressed down hard enough would he feel it?), the hand on his shoulders going up to tangle in his too-long hair. Always too long. Worse now. Even if it does do the adorable floppy thing and give Bass something to hold onto.

"I fucking love you," Bass says. Growling his fierce, fierce pride. "Thank you. Thank you for… letting me do that to you. Fuck but it felt good. Felt so fucking good. You're a goddamn demon, Miles Matheson, and I hope they never turn the power back on because I want to fuck you all the way to Chicago so you can fuck me all the way back home."

And _fuck_ but even the slightest touch is like a firebrand, burning at every point of contact, so good and so wonderful that Miles feels like it could break him all over again. Feels like he might die of happiness as Bass sears lines of ownership all over his skin, marking him forever.

He wants it. Isn't afraid of it.

"I didn't just let you," he manages to say, voice utterly wrecked. "I welcomed it. Wanted it. I told you…" And now his voice drops, and there's a frightening amount of devotion in his tone. "…I'm _yours_."

Bass suddenly squeezes him hard. Any strength left in him goes into pulling the man in for a bone-crushing hug. He doesn't know what the fuck to say in response to that. What the fuck at all.

"I'm yours too," he says, after a very hard time of thinking about it. "And I mean it. More than… I've ever meant anything. Fuck it, Miles, you made me gay and girly. I should hate you!" But there's no malice in his tone. And… he used the G-word. And it didn't set him on fire.

That makes Miles laugh a little, although there's not a trace of mockery in it; only the strange kind of warmth that comes from a shared, somewhat jubilant understanding. He manages to lift his head enough to meet Bass' eyes, staring at him from very close up.

"Oh, so this is my fault?" he says. "My fault, and not yours, with your clever lips and devious fingers and fucking delicious body? I don't know how I managed to keep my hands off you as long as I did… but I can tell you now, I do not plan on stopping. Ever. And yes… you're gay as a rainbow. Just like me. Something else we have in common besides, oh I don't know, _everything_."

And he kisses Bass again. He can't help himself. Love will do that to a man.

Bass beams. He beams like said gay rainbow. It's like… it's better than every single birthday anyone ever had. And saying the word and having it repeated back at him makes all the difference. No more hiding. No more stolen glances. He can stare and touch and have all he wants. He kisses him back – hard – and then holds him up at arm's length so he can talk.

"You're the one with the 'Fuck me I'm sexy and my eyebrows know it' voice," Bass complains, doing his best to imitate Miles' growl. "You and your goddamn evil mouth. And those tight trousers you wear that leave nothing to the imagination. You're the responsible adult, so you're responsible for how much I am going to get my freak on with you until we both pass out." But he's still smiling. A perfectly happy, nothing wrong in the world smile. Especially if they're already back to bickering. No wonder people said they were an old married couple.

He always did enjoy their little spats.

"The responsible adult? Me?" Miles looks momentarily aghast at the thought, but then his expression mellows considerably. "…I suppose I am. Funny, that. But I've been accused of worse."

"Yeah. Sergeant Matheson. Responsible Adult. Saviour of Waifs and Strays and Best Friends." Bass nudges in to snuggle against his neck. Maybe he shouldn't use best friend any more? But… they still are, right?

Then Miles leans in close, throwing all his effort into getting the growl just right – which isn't difficult in the slightest, considering how rough his voice is from all the shouting. "And I do hope so. The world seems so _lacking_ now when we're not getting our freak on."

Fuck, this is wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful.

And he does the voice, which is enough to make Bass' cock twinge in interest, feeling betrayed by his balls. "Fuck," he says, and bites down on Miles' neck. "Keep talking like that and I'm going to go down on my knees for you."

"You might kill me if you do," Miles points out. "Though at least I'd die happy."

He arches in close again, murmuring happily at the biting. Not entirely sure why he likes that so much, but oh fuck he does, and he's not ashamed to show it.

"Do you want me to?" Bass asks, in a rare moment of… something. "I can wait. Until morning. And try to suck you off before Jeremy knocks on the door asking for cereal."

"That might be… responsible. And right now… I just want to revel in the feeling of being _yours_."

Top to bottom is eminently do-able, it seems. Bottom to top… apparently much harder.

"I'll wake you up like that, then," Bass promises. "Just don't go all soldier on me and try to kill me if you wake up with your pants down."

Because that one time hadn't been fun. Okay it had. But he isn't going to admit he got turned on when Miles pulled a gun on him when he was just trying for morning sex.

"I'll… try to resist the urge this time," Miles promises back. Even though last time had been rather too enjoyable and sometimes he catches himself thinking about it and doesn't feel nearly guilty enough. Or, you know, at all.

The way Bass shifts a bit at the memory is telling. Very telling. As is the tone of Miles' voice. And the sex they'd had after it had been… good. Maybe next time Miles will keep the gun out and pressed against his temple or the side of his jaw while he… Fuck. Bass flushes pink to the roots of his hair at the thought.

It really is a good thing Miles can't actually read thoughts. A very, very good thing. Otherwise he might be proving that the bottom-to-top thing is still do-able if you have suitably filthy images to urge you on.

Bass goes back to stroking him softly, not caring how fucking gay and soppy it makes him. He combs fingers through Miles' hair, rubs soothing circles into his shoulders. "You're gonna sting tomorrow," he points out. "I did. It was kinda nice though, 'cause I could feel where you'd been. You might need to find a lake however. We might have to find some way to not be completely obvious because whilst Jeremy says he's okay with it I think I'd be clawing my eyes out by now."

"You're probably right," Miles agrees. "Maybe we need to find him a friend. Someone he can talk to whilst we're… uh… 'collecting blackberries'… But if there's going to be a lake, we're going to have to find a way to lose him for a while. I nearly pounced you right in front of him this morning when you came back all wet and doing your male model thing…"

"But does he need a boy friend, or a girl friend?" Bass wonders. And is annoyed because they are talking about Jeremy again instead of about sex. Even if it's his fault.

"That's a good question," Miles says. "Aren't we supposed to be able to tell, now?" Because of the being gay part.

"Well mostly he pisses me off and I can honestly say I don't want to screw him, just you, so maybe we need to be doing it for longer to tell?" Bass wonders. "Knowing me I'll get it all wrong and he'll punch me or something. And then I'll break his wrist and you'll be pissed with me…"

"If he punches you, feel at liberty to go all-out," Miles replies. "Though bear in mind that it's so unlikely, you'll probably pass out from the surprise first. The man doesn't do physical violence. We'll have to do something about that or he's going to get himself killed."

"You can teach him. Just don't teach him so well he beats us, just well enough that we can keep him in check."

"Somehow I doubt that will be a risk." Plus when you train someone, you know all their weaknesses. You can even make some of them.

Now Bass finds himself thinking back to the comment about the lake. And the blackberries. "You might have to give me a list of things I can and cannot do, you know. So I can do them. Or not." And because he likes Miles talking about him. Them.

Miles laughs. "Bass, if I thought you'd pay attention to what I said, I'd have started telling you what to do years ago!" Which is… friendly banter. But also an invitation for the man to surprise him at will.

Bass shrugs. "I just like to know what I should focus on. If there's something in it for me I normally listen. To you, anyway. Everyone else could always go hang."

Pressing in, Miles cups Bass' jaw, looking suddenly intent. Definitely on the upswing now. "Focus on me. Because you know what's in it for you if you do."

And he punctuates that with a slow, careful shift of his hips. Fuck but that stings… and feels too deliciously good.

Bass' smile goes languid… and teasing. And there's the devil in his eyes again. "There's no chance my attention is going to be on anything but making you – or me – scream. For the next… forever." His eyes roll back just a little at the movement. Fuck. But he wonders where he can find some viagra. Maybe then they'd be able to do it for as long as his heart wants to, not just his cock. Fingernails on shoulders again. A growl of his own.

"Promise?" Miles says, his eyes glittering with delight. Because it sounds… just too wonderful. Sounds it and feels it.

Bass takes the opportunity to roll them, and flip Miles onto his back. Hands firmly on his shoulders. And he punctuates it with a sharp, firm thrust against his ass. "Can't you tell I've got nothing else left but that?" he asks. And does it again. "I'm going to find all your secret little fantasies and I'm going to do them one by one. And then a second time so we can work out which is best. And then I'm gonna show you a few you probably never thought of."

Oh, but that's good. So very, very good. There's unhidden, unshackled pleasure writ large across Miles' face as he looks up at Bass, watching him with rapt attention.

"You already did," he points out, wicked grin in place. "On my back, being reamed by another man? Never thought I'd love that so fucking much."

Bass' grin goes wolfishly feral. "I'm gonna do more than just on your back. I'm gonna bend you over a desk and fuck you. I'm gonna hold you into a tree. I'm gonna make you stand on all fours and beg for it…" Slow, hard circles of his hips. Making the man… feel this. Feel it so much his eyes go black.

"I'm gonna make you swallow my cock until you're crying. Until you're choking. I'm gonna tie you up and bite every last inch of you. I'm gonna find out precisely how much you like my sidearm… and I'm gonna write my name all over your back." Fuck. Why does he enjoy talking dirty so much? Sending kinky texts is one thing. This is a whole new ballgame. And one he finds he's rather good at.

"Oh _fuck_ , Bass," Miles whispers, his eyes practically rolling up into his head at that. "Yes. _Fuck_ , yes. I fucking love you."

He reaches up, wrapping his arms around the other man and holding him close – partly for the contact, the proximity, the connection… and partly to hide the fact that he also just considered putting his arms up above his own head and _surrendering_ all over again.

And seriously, just what is it about Bass Monroe that makes it so damn easy to let go when he wouldn't even have _considered_ it with anyone else?

Bass leans in close, his hand going to Miles' poor, abused cock. Stroking it slowly, as he leans in closer still. "You want that, don't you? You're a kinky fucking Marine, you know? You want me to…" the minutest of pauses, "…hurt you? You want me to push you almost to breaking point? You want me to tie you up and torture every last little drop of come out of you? Don't you?"

Bass won't lie. It's… a very appealing prospect.

"And worse… you want to do it to me, too, don't you? You want to use your damn gun on me, your knife. You want to play like we're captured behind enemy lines. You just want to fuck with my head as much as my ass."

A tight, tight squeeze of his hand around Miles' cock. "You want to do all the dirty little things people wish they could do. And you want to do them with me. Except you want more, don't you? Because you're not just a normal person. You're a fucking Marine. And you're fucking sick as it is. And even better… _I am too_."

And that… something about that does the strangest thing to Miles' head, making him both utterly compliant and desperate to seize control at exactly the same time. The two surge up inside his mind and _collide_ like matter and anti-matter, and for a moment he's hovering on the edge of something he didn't even know existed, never mind knew he wanted more than oxygen.

And then he grabs hold of Bass and throws all his weight into trying to roll them both, still coupled as they are, so as to get the other man on his back again.

" _Yes_ ," he growls, right in Bass' face, blood suddenly thundering in his ears. "Yes, I _do_ want. Want it all, both ways. To feel it and to do it. I want to put a gun to your head and fuck you until you can't speak, and then I want to fall back and take the consequences. Every. Last. One."

He shunts his hips down again, and _fuck_ but that's good. "So don't you ever fucking hold back because I have waited my entire adult _life_ for someone I could trust this much and thank _fuck_ it's you, Bass, because it has to be. It could only ever be."

Bass' heart explodes. Seriously. That's what it feels like. Saying these things. Saying them and having them reciprocated. Knowing he's found his perfect other half, someone with the same twisted, dark, sick desires he has. Someone… his.

He lets Miles roll him, and he's scraping at his shoulders again. Surrendering to the position, to the man, but not surrendering everything. It's fucking weird, being stuck in this tilting, sliding reality where one minute he's in control and the next he's not. And he likes it. Likes the way his stomach lurches about. Likes the way it keeps his mind whirring at a million times normal speed.

He turns his head so that Miles is speaking right into his ear. And the words make all of the hairs on his skin stand on end. Make every nerve sing. Make him shake. His mouth goes dry listening… listening to the barest hint of the fucking amazing things Miles is offering. Promising. The ability to give, and take. To hurt and be hurt. To take over… and let go. He's never really done it before. But he has always known the want was there. Which is probably why he's never yet been happy.

Now he is. He moans like a fucking wanton at the thrusting. And yes. He's inside Miles, but nowhere near on top. And that's sort of perfect right now. "I won't ever hide a thing from you, if you won't from me. Nothing. Nothing is too much. I want to do everything you want. Everything I want. And you're not gonna break me because I'm strong enough, just strong enough. And I want you to give me your best, your hardest shot. Hit me like you mean it." A request, an order, it's difficult to tell. "Hit me like you love me. And I'll hurt you just as badly in return."

For a moment, Miles looks like he wouldn't fucking dare. Would not fucking dare. And then a wave of _darkness_ floods his expression, floods his eyes, right before he pushes up and backhands Bass roughly across the jaw – just once, but dizzyingly hard.

The adrenaline rush is incredible – both at having _done it_ , and in the seconds after, when he's waiting for a reaction. Hopefully a good one. Oh fuck yes.

Bass' head snaps to the side, because he's smart enough to know how to take a hit. When to take a hit. And he asked for – no – demanded that one. He blinks through the pain which sparks little fireworks in his head, and the way his blood thunders deafeningly loud. He snakes out his tongue to taste the thin trail of blood, and somehow that's… amazing. It's not the first time he's tasted his own blood and he knows it won't be the last. But it's like the first time it makes… sense.

His eyes aren't blue any more. They're utterly black. And his cock stirs deep inside of Miles' ass. "Again," he says, his voice heavy and full of want. It's not a request, it's an order.

Miles doesn't hesitate for as long this time, though there is still a flicker of… reluctance is the wrong word. Confusion, perhaps. Confusion about what it means for this to be _good_ and not _bad_. But then he draws back and does it again, and fuck but he's hardly breathing now, his whole body tense with anticipation and expectation and hope and… something so much more, something dark and terrible and wonderful, that he's glimpsed in himself before but never quite like this.  
And then that darkness just _overtakes_ , like the third or fourth shot of alcohol but a thousand times clearer, sharper… _better_ … and Miles shunts his hips down hard – fighting the way that sensation seems to knock all the breath out of him – and scrambles to get hold of Bass' wrists, trying to pin him to the ground.

Bass barely even breathes at the slap. Because he can't breathe. Other things are more important. And he's about to retaliate when Miles moves on top of him and that's too fucking much and has him crying out in anguished pleasure. When Miles goes for his wrists, Bass loses it completely and fights him off, struggling to keep his hands free, but not yet trying to switch their positions.

"I want to hurt you," Bass growls. "I want to hurt you so badly. I want to break my hands on your cheekbones. I want to drag my nails over your perfect fucking shoulders. And I want to hit you so hard you know I love you to death." He throws his weight into his upper body, arching up to headbutt him. Which will hurt them both equally and is kind of the point.

And it does. It really does. Miles yells in pain, but it sounds like terribly _pleasured_ pain, and when he manages to open his eyes again he can't focus properly – not from the blow, but from the headrush that followed it. The raw _need_ made manifest.

" _Yes_ ," he cries, the same way he does when he fucking _comes_. "Fuck, yes."

It hurts Bass considerably too but he was ready for it, and he uses the follow up moment of confusion to flip them back over again, crashing into the side of the tent which rocks and groans against the tethers. Not as stable as a barn, but all they have.  
And then he goes for Miles' hands, trying to pin them above his head. Because turnabout is fair play. He leans in and bites down hard on Miles' throat, and slams his hips into the man once more. There's no denying he's rock hard again, and how in the hell does getting hurt do that? It's probably good it's never really happened til now, or the tours they were on before would have ended up dishonourably but rather more fun. And it probably explains a lot about why they joined up in the first place, or all those days as kids roughhousing and sword-fighting and coming home bloody to be yelled at.

Another shunt to his hips, and he's ready in case Miles decides to switch positions again. If nothing else it's doing marvels for the way they're still stuck together.

Which feels insanely fucking good. _Insanely_ fucking good. For a long moment, Miles just lets the other man hold him down, revelling in the feeling of being pinned and taken and _wanted_ ; the position leaving him spread and vulnerable and open and _fuck_ but that's hot. He stares up at Bass, delirious pleasure in his eyes, though there's a predatory edge to it as well, a very real sense that he is down but by no means out.

And when he's done enjoying that, he throws all his weight into rolling them again, using the fact that it's his knees on the outside to give them a momentum that's hard to fight – and trying a second time to get Bass' wrists pinned, even though the man still has hold of him.

When he's rolled again, Bass takes a moment to enjoy it. To enjoy knowing he's equally matched. To knowing there's no shame in any eventual surrender. Not that he feels like surrendering just yet. But he does let himself be moved because it's just as fun on top as underneath.

Miles eventually gets hold of his wrists, but it's not as simple as that. Because Bass' nails scratch at the hands holding him down. "I'm going to fuck you," Bass says, even though he's currently not really in a position to. "And then I want you to use my come to fuck me. I want you to fuck me hard enough that it hurts, Miles. Because that's what I'm going to do to you." There really is no point in arguing with him when he makes his mind up.

Or when you happen to agree with him wholeheartedly. About all of the above. "Say 'please'," Miles growls – and whilst he would very much enjoy it if Bass _did_ say please… maybe over and over in that fucked-out, desperate voice Miles sometimes manages to provoke in the man… he's mostly just trying to wind him up. To make him react. To make him really _take_ as much as he wants.

He's currently on top – physically, at least – so he throws all his weight into staying that way. Wanting to make Bass really fight him for dominance.

"Fuck you," Bass says instead. Because he knows what the point is. And as he's currently somewhat overpowered, he has to fight dirty. Like kick his legs out to splay Miles' out, and to surge up on one side all at once as he goes to bite the man's shoulder. Hard enough to break the skin and leave him with a mouth full of the man's blood.

Any part of him that thinks that's a bad idea has long since been silenced by the way his cock thinks nothing could ever be better. And he agrees with it for once. And he's prepared to fight dirty. As dirty as it takes.

This hurts Miles like hell. Like _hell_. So why does it also feel as good as being fucked? Why does it send a spiral of white-hot pleasure flooding through him, right to his core – a heady, heavy pleasure that makes him want to cave, to give in, even whilst he's still fighting?

"I wish you would," he growls, purely for the provocation, increasingly out of his head with need and not thinking clearly at all.

Bass gives all he can and yanks a hand free. He's scraped pretty badly in the process, but it means he can then punch the wind right out of Miles' side. And when he has that done, it's only a matter of seconds more and in a flurry of snarls and slaps, Bass is out from under him, and out from _in_ him. However briefly. So he can straddle the man from behind, twisting an arm up in between his shoulderblades, and the other yanking hard on his hair until Miles' head is yanked back so hard the cords on his neck stand out.

He stares at the bloody mess that is Miles' shoulder. He did that. Bright red oozing out onto pale, perfect flesh. No way they're hiding this if Miles takes his shirt off in the next… forever. "You're _mine_ ," he hisses. "Mine to own." And then with no more warning, he lines up and shoves his cock back in, using his weight on the man's hips to hold him in place.

And _fuck_ but that's all too much, just too wonderfully much, and the lingering resistance pounding through Miles' blood shatters and fades all at once, leaving him all too willing to move where he's thrown, crying out in pain as his arm is yanked up behind his back.

"YES," he screams, well past broken and sinking into something deeper still… something waiting in the shadows, where he thought he'd already explored. "YOURS."

Those noises… those ecstatic shouts, those moments where he knows he's fucking Miles, body, heart and soul… it's never going to get old. Bass can't last long. Can't. Not when he's already come and how the fuck is he even hard again? He doesn't give a shit. All he cares about is pulling on his wrist, on his hair, making Miles ache with need and pain, making him stay _down_ , so he can use all his weight to slam into his soft, willing ass. Over and over. As hard as he dares. This angle feels great too, and if anything he's sure he's going deeper. Deeper into this beautiful, wild, darkling of a man. "FUCK," Bass yells. It's his favourite word, and apparently new favourite activity. He lets go of Miles' wrist, so he can press his thumb hard into the slippery, open cut on his shoulder. Pressing in hard until his thumb's numb, and the way Miles twitches under his hands is Bass' final undoing. With a primal yell of triumph he slams one last time into Miles' ass, come on come, making him even stickier and messier and all his.

Oh but he's going deeper. Deeper until it feels like Bass runs all the way through, like he's meant to be there and nothing else is ever going to be enough. The pain in Miles' shoulder is so intense that, coupled with the brutal fucking, the whole world just collapses and there's no coherence left; just raw emotion and feeling and _need_.

And he still wants more. What the fuck is wrong with him? He still wants _so much more_.

For what seems like an age, all he can do is lie there and take it – and love it all the same. But then he feels Bass' climax fade, feels the energy start to drop out of him… and he knows this is his moment to strike. Now or never. And for a man who's been reamed twice over in quick succession, he moves _fast_ – slamming backwards, grabbing Bass and dragging him sideways and down.

Bass has no energy or will left to fight. He's completely boneless when Miles moves him – utterly pliant. Miles could do anything to him right now and he wouldn't give a shit.

Instead, he looks up at him with those soft, wet blue eyes. He looks wasted. Wasted beyond belief, and completely at ease. He knows Miles wanted him to fight but he's done fighting and he doesn't want to any more. The screaming in his head has died down and it's all quiet. Peaceful. Serene. He doesn't remember feeling this at ease. Ever.

Bass lies back, open and accepting. And he smiles a soft, quiet little smile. "Please, Miles," he asks. No commanding now. Just a simple 'please'.

And all the need to fight in Miles' head just _melts_ at that look. One moment he's contemplating… he's not sure what he's contemplating but it might well be _bad_ … and the next Bass is staring up at him with those _eyes_ and it all collapses at once. Collapses and leaves him nigh-on falling over the other man, grasping his face and kissing him – hard, yes, but not at all harsh – trying to cover him at the same time. A very protective urge flares up, and despite the fact that the man had him pinned down and screaming only moments ago, all Miles wants now is to hold him and defend him.

"Bass," he whispers, against the man's lips. "Oh, Bass, you're amazing. Just relax, now. Relax and let me love you."

Kisses. Kisses are good. They make low heat coil in his exhausted belly. Make his heart pound, heavy and slow. Bass reaches out with fingertips to trace gently wherever he can, not presuming to do any more. Wanting to show with his fingertips that he still loves him, even with all the pain. Because of?

Bass makes a tiny little noise of dismay when the kiss ends, chasing Miles' lips. He needs him. Needs him right now. To take care of him. Because he knows he can't do it for himself. And his heart is broken into a million raw and bleeding pieces. Every act of violence or kindness another shot straight through the heart. "Yes, please," he says, sounding dreamy. Floaty. "Please love me, Miles. I want to make you happy."

"You do," Miles promises him. "You do. Just let go…"

Keeping him close, he slides a hand down, pushing Bass' legs apart and slipping in between them. There's come all over both men… OK yes, him especially… and certainly enough for him to slick his own cock with it, before moving to start sliding it into the willing body beneath him – without preamble, yes, but with care nonetheless.

"Bass," he whispers, as he does. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"Yes," Bass agrees. Of course he agrees. He agrees with anything Miles says. Eventually.

He parts his legs as soon as he's asked to, spreading himself all too eagerly. If his thighs shake just a little… it can be forgiven. He blushes just a little at how ready for this he is. How desperate. Even in this blissed-out, tired, happy satiety. He still wants Miles. His eyes stay on Miles', watching him like he's the only thing in the universe. Keeps them on him even as he pushes in – though they go blurry and unfocussed as he feels Miles enter him. He's not been prepared, it's true, but his muscles are so relaxed that it's barely a problem and it's stupidly fucking hot to think that he's pushing in using just their mingled come. Both of them spent, and mixing inside of him. So fucking hot. He cries out in a very unmanly fashion, a soft wail of completion. And he puts his hands out – palms and wrists up – to the side, offering his utter surrender.

"Yes," he says again. Slurring and exhausted and pleased. "Please. Miles. Please…" He pushes down onto Miles' cock, trying to get it in deeper. It feels good.

"Fuck," Miles breathes, feeling almost electrified at the sight of him, at the way Bass just opens up like that, arms spread, unguarded and accepting. It does something to the inside of his own head, sparking off that strange feeling of power and surrender combined in equal parts, making him want to give and take, hold and hurt, fuck and love, all at once.

He isn't going to last long. Not when this is round two and round one was more than enough to leave him collapsed and boneless on the ground. So he just revels in the feeling of it all, letting the pleasure build and build in slow, hot circles, hand still grasping Bass' jaw as he leans in to kiss the man all over again, moaning in need against his lips.

Bass is barely holding onto consciousness, drifting slightly above and to the left of his body. Only slightly. He feels like his body wouldn't respond to anything he told it. It's just Miles' plaything now, and he finds he likes the idea.

He welcomes the kiss, sucking softly on Miles' lip. But he still wants more. "Please," and there's no way it can be interpreted as anything _but_ begging. "Please Miles. Own me. Hurt me. Please…"

There's no way Miles is going to hurt the man now. Not really. Not when he's _glowing_ again; glowing with want and need and… fuck. Happiness. Actual, soul-deep happiness. But that doesn't mean he has to deny the plea completely… not when Bass is looking up at him like that. He grabs hold of Bass' wrists and holds him down, pushing his hands up above his head to make him stretch out a little. To hold him open and spread. He's so fucking beautiful like this. So fucking beautiful all the time, if truth be told.

"All mine," he says, leaning to speak right beside Bass' ear in that low, dangerous tone which he knows drives the other man wild. "You've fucked me out of my mind twice tonight. I think it's time I returned the favour."

And with all the strength he's got left, he starts to fuck Bass as hard as he can, pounding into him over and over until it's all too much and the world just _cracks_ , and he's suddenly coming with everything he's got left, riding out every last drop of pleasure with a cry of euphoria, mixed with the other man's name – and then dropping down on top of him once it all finally fades, gasping hard.

That's better. Bass belongs to Miles, for Miles to own and use and abuse. They own one another, but it's time for Miles to be the one in control even if just for now. Bass arches with pleasure at being pinned down, finding it liberating. Good.

He's so far gone he just makes that soft little keening noise when Miles husks in his ear. It melts every last bit of him. Any fight in him is destroyed by his kindness, his strength.

And his hips. His evil, wicked, wonderful hips. And that cock that slams stars into the space behind his eyes. Bass just moans over and over, voice breaking and shuddering with each push into him. Until it's over. And he knows it's over.

"Thank you," he says, and then the pleasure blacks him out and the whole world tilts and slides out of view.

Miles wraps tight around him with whatever strength and energy he's got left – not much of either, but enough to get a hold on Bass, shifting position slightly so he's covering the man without crushing him. And then… he just stays close, not wanting to move again. Ever. This is where he wants to be.

"Fuck, Bass, that was amazing," he whispers, not even lifting his head yet. He doesn't think he could ever get tired of saying it. Or doing it.

And then he looks up and… well. What are you supposed to do when your partner passes out afterwards? He doesn't think it's bad, per se, but all the same it is a little… odd. Or is it? It's not like he's ever had sex like _this_ before, so he has no point of comparison.

But. They're both breathing, and they're both here, and that's all he needs for now. So he curls in close, relaxing completely, giving in to the exhaustion… and falling into the dark.

***

When Bass and Miles don't get up before him the next day, Jeremy worries. They're soldiers and stuff so they should really be up and killing things whilst he's still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, shouldn't they?

Although he did… hear things. Again. So it's possible that one of them killed the other last night, or they're just sleeping it off.

Still. They said they would look after him so he decides it's time to earn his keep. Using his new found fire-lighting skills, he gets a little blaze going and ekes out some of his small secret stash of coffee from the ziplock baggie he's hidden it in. When the smell of it isn't enough, he goes over to the tent. And coughs. And when that gets nowhere he bites his lip.

"Morning, campers, rise and shine."

It is a good moment or two before anyone emerges from the tent, following a short amount of hurried movement inside. It's Miles, mercifully (and necessarily, given all the marks) dressed but looking very worse for wear. And thoroughly pleased about it. He's gotten the majority of the blood off his face, and at least the state of his shoulder isn't visible now he's got his shirt back on.

He aches. He moves like he aches. And like he really, really doesn't regret it.

Fuck, but last night was good.

"Hey," he says, his voice still pretty rough. And then… "Is that coffee?"

"Yes!" Jeremy says that a bit too energetically, but then he's holding out two cups so he hopes it makes up for it. "I save it for special occasions and emergencies and…" Okay don't say that. "Thank you for saving my life." Yeah that sounds less stalkery.

"Do you want anything else? I can bring some water if you want to freshen up first. I want to earn my keep. The coffee won't last forever."

From inside the tent, Bass calls out, "For god's sake Miles get me the fucking coffee, or so help me god I will leave you."

"You wouldn't fucking dare!" Miles calls back, but gives Jeremy an almost apologetic look as he does. He takes one of the cups and passes it to Bass inside the tent, before turning back to accept the second, holding it close and breathing in the aroma. Fuck, it's been too long.

"Try me," Bass says, but he is always a bitch when he's not slept enough. He takes the coffee with a grunt of thanks and vanishes back into the bedrolls.

"Thanks for this," Miles says to Jeremy, drinking a mouthful in the hope it might start to bring him round. Maybe.

Though he's not entirely certain what else he should say. In the cold light of morning… it's hard to ignore the fact that they must have been extremely loud the night before. There's certainly no way Jeremy can have avoided overhearing… pretty much all of it, he realises.

No wonder the poor man is bringing them coffee. He's probably surprised they're both still alive.

"I was thinking," Miles goes on, having finally managed to settle on something – and fuck knows _when_ he was thinking about it. "This seems like a good spot to stay for a few days. River's close by, so we've got water, and it's sheltered. Secluded. We could take a little time out and start teaching you some hand-to-hand stuff. Defensive, mostly, but if you take to it I'm sure we could up the ante a little. Certainly enough to make sure that anyone who tries to mess with you again has to think twice about it."

As Miles is now seemingly happy to talk to him because of the coffee, Jeremy crouches down with his own. He listens to him, nodding sensibly even though the only part he understands is the fact there's water. And trees. But apart from that he's not sure why this bit of water and trees is better than the last bit of water and trees. Maybe some day he will be able to tell these arcane woodland secrets.

"I'd like that. Really. I want to be useful and I want to be able to stand up for myself. I mean, if I get good enough then three people is stronger than two, right? Er. If you want me around of course." He looks so hopeful that it would take a man with a heart of stone to refuse him. Being out in the wilderness so long will do that to you.

"Exactly," Miles replies, smiling a little. Three is stronger than two. And it's nice to be able to offer someone else a flicker of genuine hope, other than that look Bass gets right before he… OK, no Miles, focus, _focus_ …

Coffee.

"And yes," he goes on, because talking is distracting and also serves to keep him conscious, "we want you around. The way the world is now… it's stronger to band together."

Jeremy tries not to let the relief show. Because now both of them have said they want him to stay. And they wouldn't if they didn't, right? It's not like they look like they were eco-warriors or Wall Street Occupiers before the Blackout, so he must have some merit.

"When do we start?" he asks. "Should I do warm ups or something, or should I sit and listen to running water so I can find inner Zen, or should I be polishing boots until I learn patience or something? I only know fighting from TV or the movies so I really don't know."

From inside the tent, there's a quiet snort. But Bass doesn't say anything else. He just grabs the covers and pulls them over his head and goes back to working out what the fuck last night meant. Or he would, if the other two would shut the fuck up. Don't they know when to let a man process shit?

Despite not even being able to see Bass, Miles can take a hint. He downs most of what's left of his coffee, then gestures off in the direction of the nearby river. "Come on," he says to Jeremy. "You can come with me whilst I dunk my head in cold water, and then I'll teach you some simple techniques. We'll just skip the Zen part. Never really been my thing."

Which means now he has to stand. Which… OK, standing isn't so easy. Is it supposed to feel like that? He guesses it is, on account of the part where… Yes.

Seriously, Miles, stop thinking about it.

Jeremy notices the other man's careful movements, which is why he immediately offers his hand. He's slept mostly okay, and the pain of the beating has sort of subsided now. He's never been in a fight before but he's surprised how quickly he's got over it.

"Great. I don't think I'm actually gonna be like a Jedi or anything. I'm more likely to just be good at hitting stuff. It would be cool to do kung fu and shit but I think that boxing is probably more my thing. What do they teach you in the Marines? Do you learn kung fu?"

"Sadly not," Miles answers, with a grin. "But we do learn more than enough to get by. Even without a weapon."

That's a point. "Have you handled a gun before?"

"Uhm. Does Xbox count?" Jeremy looks sheepish. "Sorry. No, not really."

"That's OK," Miles says, trying not to comment on the Xbox remark. He never had time for those things, either, despite Bass always going on about how they should… what was the word? Co-op? Why a real soldier would want to play at being a fake one, Miles could never work out.

Another benefit to this Blackout, then. They're starting to pile up.

"It's something I should teach you eventually. The hand-to-hand stuff will be useful, but knowing what to do with a gun will be even more so."

"Do you use the guns to hunt?" Jeremy asks. "Because I know you've been eating rabbits. And I mostly just ate fruit if there were no supplies left to take." So much to learn. Why did he never learn any of this beforehand?

"We have done so far, mostly because it's quicker than trying to build traps," Miles tells him. "Pretty soon we're going to have to stop doing that, though, because we need to conserve ammo. We have plenty of it… but a finite amount."

And then what? Bows and arrows? Fucking swords? Is this what the twenty-first century will come to?

"Do you think we'll ever be… safe again?" is Jeremy's next question. He's trying not to bombard Miles, but he's so very eager.

And then there's that. Safe. Will they ever be safe?

"I don't know," Miles admits. "I guess it depends on the way things go. Whether the rules change again. But what I do know is that you're always safer if you know how to protect yourself."

"Maybe we should start trying to work out the best traps before it gets too late," Jeremy suggests, but he doesn't comment on the safety issue. It's just more to think about.

They reach the river – it's fairly wide here, not too far up from the lake, and helpfully not too fast flowing. Miles goes over to it, dropping onto his knees to splash water on himself and taking his shirt off before he remembers that he really, really shouldn't.

Jeremy had already freshened himself so he doesn't feel the need to do the same when they get to the river. And it's not like he was deliberately looking but when Miles pulls his shirt off and shows the bloody mess that is his shoulder, his immediate reaction is to go over and help.

And then his brain kicks in. And he stops himself in time. Because it's not like it's an old wound and unless Bass is a werewolf or Miles wrestles bears and cougars at night there's not really any other explanation for it.

He stares resolutely at the river. And then he wonders what state Bass is in. And then his mind goes into lockdown.

Once it's too late, it's too late, so Miles keeps acting like he _meant_ to do that, even if he moves a little faster now, pulling his shirt back on once he's done. He turns and glances up and… yep, Jeremy _had_ been looking, oh fucking hell.

What do you say? Explain it? Brush it off? Say nothing? How do you tell a man you've only known for two days that, no, it's fine, it's just that you've started having riotously good sex with your best friend and sometimes you both like to get violent because apparently it's the best aphrodisiac in the world and makes you capable of coming like a freight train twice in one night?

Exactly. Exactly. You don't say anything of the sort.

"…It's fine," he says, realising that he can't get out of acknowledging it in some way. "It was consensual."

…Oh, great, way to make it sound even worse, Miles.

"Uhm. I didn't doubt that. I mean. You're both soldiers and you can look after yourselves and shit. And he was still talking to you this morning and you sounded like you–" Jeremy manages to stop before he says 'were having a lot of fun last night'.

"Seriously. It's fine, man. I mean. I guess it could be not fine and you could end up really hurt or suffering infections or some shit but you know what you're doing. Just… look after yourself, okay? I don't want you dropping dead of a fever because you…" Because you what, Jeremy Baker? Because you get off on inflicting surface wounds? There really is no right thing to say right now.

Instead his voice sort of gets squeaky. "If you want to leave the training til you're not… uhm. As sore. I understand."

And fuck. Now he's worried that Miles will get off on beating him up or some shit. Or Bass will. Bass seems to be the slightly less… friendly of the two. And the biter, apparently. What if they want to kidnap him to torture him in some sick weird gay abuse fantasy?

Jeremy starts to hyperventilate. He puts his hands on his knees and wonders if he can run faster than the two of them? Or would they track him down or something and make it even worse?

Oh dear. Miles really isn't helping, is he? This is what he gets for not thinking things through. Not that he's in much of a state to do deep and complex thought this morning.

"Uh, no, no, I'm fine, honestly," he says. "I've had far worse." And then he realises what _that_ sounds like and adds, "On deployment. Look… don't worry, OK? This is…" He sighs, trying to work out how to attack the crux of it without having to deal with anything more. It isn't easy. "We're not going to hurt you. So the rest of it… just don't worry about the rest of it…"

Seriously, Miles, stop talking.

"I… uhm…" Jeremy still doesn't know what the hell to say. And it's hard to get the image of Bass coming after him with some riding crop or some shit out of his head. And Miles watching. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with his brain?

"If it's okay with you I'd like to pretend I never… heard any of it and I just think you're really close friends or maybe more, that's okay, and we can pretend I don't know you're…" Perverts?

"…I shouldn't come to your tent in the mornings any more, should I?" he asks, sounding rueful. "I'll just wait in bed until you're sorted and then you can come get me and that will work."

"Seriously, man, it's fine," Miles tries again, desperately trying to wind in this convoluted mess before it gets any worse. Why he cares, he's not entirely sure. But he does. So. "This is new to us. And we're trying to work out what it means. But we're not crazy, and we're not a threat to you. So…–"

So what, Miles? How is he even supposed to explain this properly when he's not yet certain what it means himself?

Perhaps mercifully, this is when the coffee's done enough for Bass to send him staggering out from the tent. He walks up to the river barely dressed and eyes straight ahead. Then he shucks off what clothing he has on, and walks stark-bollock naked into the river. He doesn't even yell 'fuck' at how cold it is, but somehow goes from upright to not in a matter of heartbeats. He lets the cold water run over his head, rolls over onto his back, lifts up onto his elbows and spits out a mouthful of river.

"Fuck me but that's better," Bass says. His eyes are closed and he's just letting the cold water freeze him to his core. Letting the light trickle of sunlight dance behind his eyelids.

Jeremy… stares. It's hard not to. Bass is so utterly shameless that he seems to invite it.

Miles stares too. Thank fuck he's still sitting down. And it's only Jeremy being here that stops him yanking all his own clothes off and leaping into the river too, coldness be damned. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him?

"…Hey, Bass," Miles manages, trying to sound calm and nonchalant and not like he's having the most inappropriate thoughts imaginable.

"Hey Miles," Bass says, still not opening his eyes. "Hey Jeremy."

"H-hey," Jeremy manages.

"Look I hope you two girls are done talking about your fucking feelings, because I was lying in the tent thinking and shit," Bass says, head tilted back so the river tugs softly at his hair. It feels good, even if his legs are kinda going numb. "Miles and I have just started fucking. And as much as I really wish we were the type to be discreet about it, we're not. Which you already know. And I don't want to feel all fucking awkward about it because Christ it's the best thing ever."

Jeremy isn't sure if he should answer or not, so he nods.

"So I've decided I'm not gonna fucking care about it because it is far too good of a thing to feel guilty about. So I'm not gonna lie and pretend we're just friends or any shit like that. I'm going to continue to screw my best friend silly and have a fucking awesome time of it. And as soon as we get you a nice lady friend, I want you to screw _her_ until she screams and in the morning I'll clap you on the back and we can all go kill and eat some animals and it'll be fucking awesome. Deal?"

"Uhm…" Jeremy glances over at Miles, because Bass still isn't looking. "As long as it doesn't have to be a girl then fine. It's a brave new world we're in so… sure. I'm. Uh. Happy for you. Seriously, man."

"Good." And Bass ducks his head under the water again and starts scrubbing his dick clean, because if he doesn't do it in the cold water then he's going to be sending Jeremy for a long stand somewhere.

Miles just stares at Bass throughout this. On the one hand he's a little concerned about the sudden torrent of graphic honesty… not that Bass has ever really been one for keeping things to himself, but even so. And on the other hand… fuck but the man is _hot_ when he's like this. And honesty is probably the best policy.

Especially because it was a goddamn fucking _ban_ on honesty that stopped him from letting this happen two and a half years ago. Think of all the things they could have done in two and a half years… fuck, OK don't think about it because otherwise…

Fuck it.

Miles stands up, strips off completely, and drops into the river. Which is fucking cold. And a good idea.

Jeremy looks a bit alarmed that Miles is naked too. Do soldiers normally wander around naked in front of one another, or just gay ones? He thinks about it for a few moments before he decides if they're all going to be open and honest and equal and that shit…

…he stands up, pulls all _his_ clothes off, and gets in too.

It's damn cold but that kind of helps him stop thinking about the two of them. It's hard not to when you can hear them every night. And neither one of them is bad looking.

"Bass, you're fucking mental!" he screams, when the shock of it all wears off. "How can you sit in this?"

Bass sits up, so the water is just lapping around his waistline. His skin is shivering and goosepimpled, but there's that look of complete certainty in his eyes. When he sets his mind on something, he gets it. And he just got it.

"I can sit in this because if I don't sit in this I am likely to interrupt your training session, and as you've said you want to be one of us I think it's really important we make you into the best damn recruit the Blackout's ever seen."

"Man has a point," Miles says, finding a flat section of riverbed that's not too deep and leaning back, resting on his elbows. Apparently he's got more of a shameless side than he thought. Interesting. "But…" – and now he turns to look at Bass – "…we're going to need to borrow you at some point. Not straight away, but once I've shown Jeremy a few moves, he's going to need someone to practice them on. And obviously I'm going to need to watch so I can comment on technique."

And I might also need to borrow you to demonstrate some moves beforehand, he almost adds, but then realises this could be a bad idea because once they get their hands on each other, they're not good at stopping. And whilst it's good that they're doing the honesty thing now, there's a big difference between being open and honest and actively fucking in front of the guy you rescued from bandits. Who also just admitted… _oh fucking hell, Miles, pay attention..!_

"…Wait," he says, looking back at Jeremy, "you're not into girls at all?"

"Er. No. Never have been," Jeremy says. "So I was kinda glad when you two weren't either. Because I thought maybe that's why those guys were trying to kill me." He sits up with his knees drawn into his chest. "I always thought I radiated gay or some shit, considering."

"Well I couldn't tell," Bass reassures him. "But that might be because I only seem to want Miles. No offence intended. And I'll fucking kill anyone who lays a finger on you – for that or anything else."

Jeremy nods, grateful, resting his chin on said knees. "Thank you." He's not sure what the hell else you say about that.

Then Bass turns to Miles. "Use me all you need. I think I owe the universe a few hits by now." A pause. He looks at Jeremy. "I never hit a guy for being gay," he decides to reassure him. "But I don't think before the lights went out anyone would have told me they were. And I feel a bit bad about that."

"Brave new world…" Miles remarks, almost offhand, but with a little smile all the same. And then he sits up, slapping his hands on his knees. "Well, come on, we should probably get out of this river before we freeze."

Even if it is rather pleasant. And sort of helpful.

He clambers up, splashing back over to the bank and starting to pull his clothes on again – which isn't the most enjoyable experience, given that he's rather damp, but at least it's warmer.

Bass lingers in the water so he can admire Miles' ass… but then he reluctantly gets up too. His clothes are a bit messy but what the hell, if they're going to tousle he's going to get sweaty again all over.

"I'll do the warm-up," Bass offers. "Jeremy, man, you better give this bit your all or you will be even more sore tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir!" the other man says, dressing rather rapidly.

When all three of them are out, Bass starts by swinging his arms energetically – circles, stretched out, then across the body. "I'm not an officer, you don't have to call me Sir," he says. "Unless you think we should take a promotion, Miles?"

Miles can't help a laugh at that. "Well, I thought we would both have made General by now…" he says, but he's really only joking.

He clambers up to join in, knowing he needs to warm up as well, and also knowing that the physical activity will distract him from other thoughts of other physical activity. Fuck but at least they're going to be in goddamn wonderful shape.

"You'll always be Generals to me," Jeremy says, trying not to sound like that's creepy, and more like it's what you say. If you're normal. He copies Bass' movements to the letter.

"If I was, I sure as hell wouldn't be doing warm ups," Bass jokes back. Moving onto leg stretches, and from there to jogging on the spot. "But if it makes you feel better why not."

"The hell you would," Miles replies. Letting Bass lead the warm-up, given that it's Miles who's going to be leading the actual techniques. "You know what happens when you don't warm up. It hurts. In a bad way. Though I guess you would at least have someone doing the fighting part for you so it would all be redundant anyway."

But where would be the fun in that?

Once they've run through a good few warm-ups, Miles finally gestures for them to stop and moves around, so he's standing opposite Jeremy but with a reasonable distance between them.

"All right, now, we'll start with some blocking techniques," he says. "No point moving on to anything else if you can't block properly. The trick is not to tense up – meeting force with force will get you more hurt than not."

He starts to demonstrate, keeping it slow and easy at first, showing the movements and positions and then getting Bass to swing at him, so it's clear how the blocks actually work.

And it's… easy. Easy to just fall into this, into teaching the third man precisely what he needs to learn. It's going to be a long process, yes, but that's no surprise… and it's probably a good sign.

But all the way through, he can't quite shake the memory of the sound of that rank, on the other man's lips…

General, huh? Maybe he could get used to that.

***

**EIGHT MONTHS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

It starts with the sound of gunfire.

The three men are on the road – in northern Kentucky, now, Miles is sure of it – and it's coming up to mid-morning when they hear the shots from a little way off. There's a village nearby – Allentown; named, no doubt, for the much larger Allentown in Pennsylvania, but clearly tiny in comparison, if the maps they've got are anything to go by. Miles has been deliberately avoiding it, but at the first gunshots he pauses, turning to look out over the fields towards the distant buildings.

"Gunfire," he says, hand going instinctively to the sidearm at his hip. And then… "We should check it out."

"Why?" Bass asks, immediately. He almost hates himself for it, but someone has to be the voice of reason. He's not sure why he has the job, because he's never been really responsible.

Jeremy stares into the distance, thinking. He's not sure himself, and he knows he'll be useless in a firefight right now because he's only just worked out how to shoot cans that don't move. So he keeps tactfully silent.

"Because gunfire is usually a bad sign," Miles points out, the presence of the other two being the only thing keeping him from tearing off across the fields straight away. "There's a little village out that way. There might be people in trouble. People who could use our help. And it… it's not right, Bass. We shouldn't just stand idly by."

He looks pointedly at Jeremy. He still doesn't regret rescuing the man, and if it worked once… no reason it couldn't work again.

Bass thinks about it for a moment. His mind is throwing up all sorts of reasons why not to. Things like: we don't know how many people are there. We don't know why they are shooting guns. We might get hurt.

But they were soldiers, once. And they signed up to serve and protect. So he nods. "Okay. Yes. But we gotta be careful for once. We don't know what the hell we're up against."

Jeremy is glad they've decided to help. Mostly because his mentors are agreeing and that's better than when they disagree. But also because maybe he'll get to do something useful too. Maybe he'll get to put some of the training to use. "Just tell me what to do and I'll do it," he says.

"Stay close to either of us," Miles tells him. "Draw the gun I gave you but don't use it unless you need to – but if you do need to, then don't hesitate. And remember that you don't have to kill someone to slow them down."

He draws his own sidearm now, the cold metal comfortable and familiar in his fingertips. Making him feel… making him feel like he can do this. Do what's right. Help. This is what he signed up for, after all… to defend his countrymen. His home.

_Semper fidelis…_

Now he looks to Bass. "Stay close. We'll take it slow. Find out what we're up against."

Bass nods, and already has his own gun drawn. He's unconsciously flanking Jeremy, making sure he's ready to cover the man in case of… the very likely firefight. "Do you want me to scout ahead?" he asks Miles.

Jeremy swallows. Suddenly it's real. And weird. And worrying. His hands are uncertain but he draws the gun and obsessively makes sure the safety is still on.

"Stick together, at least for now," Miles replies. "We'll move in closer, see what's going on. If we need to up the ante… we have the rifles."

Which is more than most people will have out here.

He gives the field signal for them to move forwards – they've taught Jeremy a few basic ones in case it came in handy, but Miles knows he needs to keep it simple. He and Bass could probably have an entire debate on the situation without speaking, but they'll lose Jeremy in the process, and he doesn't want to do that.

Slowly, they start advancing over the fields, keeping to cover wherever possible, watching the way ahead.

When they get close enough, it becomes clear there's two groups in a standoff. They can hear them way before they can see them. A group of men shouting at the others to surrender, and the shrill voice of a young person refusing to do any such thing. From the way shots are only sporadic, it sounds like there's some form of barricade. And as they get closer still, the undeniable whinny and clop of horses.

"We are in the Wild West after all," Bass murmurs, lowly. "I count at least four on one side, and I'm not sure how many on the other." He's talking for Jeremy's benefit.

"And they have horses? Who has horses?" Jeremy asks, sounding bewildered.

"Makes sense," Miles reasons. "Faster than walking and a lot more powerful."

He pushes up slightly, getting a look around the low wall they've hidden behind before ducking into cover again. "OK, there's at least three on the far side, maybe four. We need to get them to stand down, and then work out what's going on. I…"

He looks up at one of the nearby trees. "Bass… d'you think you could climb up there with your rifle? If you're watching my back through the scope… I can walk out to that barricade. Make them all stand down. And if they resist… I give you the signal and you fire. Unless they're trained soldiers – and they don't look it – that will likely be enough to scare them."

Bass doesn't look so happy at the idea. Mostly because it involves Miles walking out to people with guns. "Wouldn't you rather I just shot them all from the tree?"

Miles grips Bass' shoulder. "If it comes to it, yes, but I'd rather _not_ have to murder a load of people without even knowing what's going on. I want to give them a chance to explain themselves first."

Then he lifts his own sidearm. "Besides, I'm not going out there without a weapon of my own. And Jeremy's going to come with me."

Bass wants to protest, wants to tell him they should just leave. Wants to beg him to come. But he's not sure Miles will. And what Miles wants… Bass can't refuse. He puts his hand on Miles', wanting to convey his worry and his fear with that.

"Okay. One for warning, two for maiming, three for killing," he says. Then he drops to one knee to get his rifle out of his pack. He hasn't used it in… a long time. It feels weird to have it in his hands again.

Jeremy looks at the bigger gun with unbridled interest. He hadn't known they were carrying them, but he supposes it makes sense. "I'll try to keep him safe, Bass, I promise."

"You keep yourself safe too. I can kill them all but only one at a time and if they stay in my line of sight. It's not a sniper rifle after all," Bass points out. "I can only do so much."

"Stick close to me," Miles says to Jeremy. "Keep your gun drawn but don't raise it unless you need to. And let me do the talking."

What the fuck he's going to say is another matter. 'Put your weapons down and play nice or my lover is going to blow your heads off?'

…OK that's kinda hot. Focus.

"Right. Let's do this." He grips Bass' arm again. "I love you. We'll be fine."

"Don't fucking die, Miles Matheson. Don't fucking die." But it's really 'I love you too'. And then Bass is climbing up the tree more lithely than any man should be able to, the rifle swinging low on his back. When he gets in place he looks down the scope and gives an okay sign. The line of sight's good enough for what they need.

"Let you do the talking… sure. Fuck but this is sort of exciting," Jeremy says, the adrenaline making him a little dizzy.

Miles claps him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit." He's not actually sure if 'exciting' is a good label for this, but it's better than 'fucking terrifying' so he decides to roll with it for now. He looks up at Bass one last time, then gestures for Jeremy to follow him and steps out into the open, moving smoothly but briskly towards the barricade.

From the looks of things, a group of people have blockaded themselves into a large building – the town hall, perhaps, judging by the design of it. This particular Allentown isn't much more than a hamlet, but the central square seems as though it was once well-kept, opening out onto the fields beyond. A single railway track leads into a tiny station slightly further over, long out of use.

Surrounding the barricade, a little way off, there are a number of men – several with horses, and all of them armed. Miles advances towards them, gun visible but not yet raised.

"Everybody stand down!" he calls out – and whilst there's hope that they might all comply, mostly he just wants their attention to start off with.

The man who must be the leader – the one on the horse he's barely keeping under control from how often it rears – turns to look at them. And turns his shotgun to point at them. "And who in the hell do you think you are?"

High in the tree, Bass' finger finds the first biting point of the trigger. And it takes all the strength he has not to shoot the man aiming at his lover.

"I'd say 'move along', but I think you're going to join these nice people in surrendering," the leader goes on. "And giving us your guns. And anything else we want."

"People like you make me sick," Miles replies. "The world's a mess, and you're dealing with it by threatening anyone you find? Stand down. Stand down and let them go, or you're going to regret it."

He can already feel the anger burning in his chest, especially now he's closer. Now he can see faces hiding just beyond the barricade; frightened people, driven into desperate retreat and with nowhere else to hide. Nowhere else to turn.

This is right. It has to be right. If no one will stand up… everything will fall down.

The leader makes a gesture, and two riders move to flank them, each standing a third of the way around to make their vulnerability more obvious. "People like me? Who are you to judge me? There's no law, now. The only rule is take what you can. So put your gun down now or maybe we won't kill you fast. And Jonah here will shoot you in the stomach. Hurts real bad dying from that."

Jeremy's gun hand twitches. He doesn't like this. Doesn't like how powerless he feels. Doesn't like that they're threatening Miles. But he also doesn't know what to do about it. He does his best to look imposing, and not like he's secretly close to wetting himself.

"Yeah, it does," Miles says, and oh but there's a dark look in his eyes now… a look that's hard to miss, and easy to read: I know _exactly_ what it's like. And not from the receiving end. "So you gotta think really carefully before you threaten me or my friend again. _Really_ carefully."

He raises his free hand, the gesture slow and clear… and the ground in front of the ringleader erupts in a burst of dust as a gunshot cuts the air, sharp and harsh and oh so very decisive.

"You think I'd walk in here without backup?" Miles goes on, his voice low and absolutely _deadly_. "I'm a United States Marine, you fucking idiot. Now back the hell down or the next shot will be to your head. And you won't even see it coming."

The two behind them are obviously spooked, and the leader's horse lets out a frightened whinny, bucking hard and trying to throw him. The man swears and tries to force the horse to behave, but that makes it worse and suddenly he's on the floor and he's dropped his shotgun. The horse's hooves come down inches from his face.

Which is when the rest of the gang re-evaluate their stance on the issue, and kick their horses into retreat.

Jeremy cocks his gun. And points it at the man on the floor. It seems safe enough to do that.

Which is a nice little move. Miles is more than happy to roll with it. He advances on the fallen man, his own gun pointed down at him too. "You got five seconds to get the fuck out," he growls. "And if you ever come back here, I will give you a _graphic_ lesson on _exactly_ what it feels like when someone shoots you in the stomach."

For a second, it looks like the man is going to comply… but then some insane urge takes him, and he rolls to the side, seizing up his shotgun and swinging to point it at Jeremy.

Miles doesn't even think. Before the bandit even has a clear shot, Miles fires at him, the bullet catching the man right in the midsection in a burst of vivid red – and then he launches himself at the guy, kicking the shotgun from his hands and knocking him back down onto the ground. Then he looms in over him, whilst the man lies bleeding and making the most awful sound.

" _That's_ what it feels like, you son of a bitch," Miles whispers.

And shoots him in the head.

It all goes so fast that Jeremy isn't sure he's even seen it. In fact, he's still not entirely sure what's happened. But Miles is standing over a dead man, and there's blood and bits of brain everywhere. And that's kind of… gross.

He decides it's time to find a bush. With as much tact as he can manage, he staggers off to throw up into it.

It's barely a moment later and Bass is there, having moved at nearly inhuman speed and having done something awful to his knees to get out of the tree that fast. He's grabbing Miles by the shoulder and yelling.

"You idiot! You fucking idiot! You were in my line of sight! I could have shot him and you were in the way and you nearly fucking died and got Jeremy killed! MILES!"

Bass is close to hysterical. He's never felt so… afraid. Ever. In his whole damn life. And it wasn't for him.

He grabs the back of Miles' head, and pulls him in for the most bruising kiss it's possible to kiss. Fucking Allentown be damned.

Jeremy finishes throwing up, and staggers back over, looking like he's seen a ghost. He has the decency not to say anything.

The kiss is… OK, pretty damn good, even if there's a whole bunch of people looking at them. Miles kisses back, but then puts a hand on Bass' chest, breaking off so he can speak. "I didn't have time to move. He'd have shot Jeremy. Or me. And I had it under control."

He's reasonably certain he had it under control. It felt like it at the time.

But before anyone else can get a word in, a short, furiously fast individual erupts from the barricade, leaping over it to face them down. "Are you all fucking nuts?!" it shouts.

The individual in question is a short, sleight young man; no more than eighteen or nineteen at most. He's dressed in khaki and grey, with sandy-blond hair and oddly greenish eyes, and holding…

It's a katana. No, not a katana, too small to be a katana. A wakizashi, then.

Bass reacts on instinct, going between Miles and the weird boy with a sword, gun raised and pointed at his heart instinctively.

"You might be more fucking grateful that he just risked his life to save your ass," Bass snarls at him.

Jeremy has given up knowing what to do. So he just steps closer to Miles' side, to stand behind Bass. Because apparently Bass is a psycho guard dog now.

The young man lowers the sword, if only because it's obvious he can't win with a gun pointed at his chest. But he doesn't back off, and is clearly trying to look as tough and confident as possible. "I would be, but those guys will be back," he says. "That's assuming you're not planning to step into their space and kill us yourselves."

He's scared. That much is obvious too.

Miles puts a hand out, resting it on Bass' gun arm; urging him to lower it but not outright pushing. "Put the gun down, Bass. It's OK."

Bass resists for a second, eyes on the boy, making him see that he means business. And then he lowers the rifle.

"If we wanted to kill you ourselves we'd have done it by now, or let them do it first and finished them off when they were looting your cold, dead corpses," Bass points out. He's not so good at being reassuring.

"We're the good guys," Jeremy says. It is a little bit more reassuring.

"…Really?" the young man replies, looking… more hopeful now. "I… OK. Look, I'm sorry I…"

He pauses. Clears his throat. "I'm Ollie. Oliver Fischer."

"Glad to meet you. I'm Miles Matheson, and this is Sebastian Monroe and Jeremy Baker. And we're really not here to cause trouble."

Bass decides that if he's going to be convincing, he should shoulder the gun. So he slings it over his back. Still close, but not threatening.

"Bass and Miles really are Marines," Jeremy tells him, now looking a bit more human. "And they save people like you. They're kind of badass."

Bass rolls his eyes at the fanboy. "You save one guy from being beaten and suddenly it's all anyone talks about…"

Jeremy punches him in the arm. Bass just looks at him. Jeremy stands down.

Ollie looks at the three of them like he thinks they're _still_ fucking nuts, but doesn't comment. "…You're really Marines? Then maybe you can help us. Those guys are going to be back. They've been here once before. We managed to scare them off that time but there's more of them now. If they come back again… _when_ they come back again… they'll kill us all. Or worse. We need to take the fight to them – take them out before it's too late."

"Now wait just a second, kid," Miles says, "We chased them off, sure, but we're hardly equipped to take on a whole bunch of armed guys if they decide to fight."

"Not to mention they will keep coming back," Bass says. "You're going to have a war of attrition on your hands. Maybe you should just pack up and go somewhere they can't find you."

"No… that way they still win!" Ollie insists. And then he gestures behind himself, to where the townsfolk are watching the exchange from behind the barricade. "These people _live_ here. It's their _home_. Why should they be forced out by a gang of murderers?" He pauses. Pulls himself together as best he can. Clearly knows he's getting too emotional. "Please. You're the only ones who can help us."

Miles… is about to say no, but then he hesitates. Rubbing a hand over his eyes for a second, he turns to look at Bass. "We could do this," he points out, softly.

Bass is about to call him out in front of everyone, but something in Miles' expression convinces him to be careful. He puts his hand on the man's upper arm, turning him away from the group to talk lowly.

"Miles… with what army? We have a handful of handguns, two rifles, limited ammo, and Jeremy can sort of throw a punch. We have no idea how many of them we'd be up against and as soon as we leave some other group of assholes will come along and do it to them all over again."

"I know that," Miles replies, looking horribly torn. "But if we leave them, it will be so much worse. If we take these bandits out… it will help. And it might even give us the influence we need to persuade these people to leave before they really get themselves killed."

He grips Bass' arm, a very strange look in his eyes now. "There's families here, Bass. We can't just abandon them. It isn't right."

Bass meets Miles' eyes. Any further concerns or complaints he might have had melt away at the contact, at the… need. He wonders maybe is Miles thinking about Ben, Rachel and those two little rugrats. Thinking how he'd hope someone else would save them if they passed on through. And maybe he should think of them as his family, too, now. Now that they're… not just friends. It's a weird sort of feeling, having been alone in the world for what feels like forever now.

So Bass nods. "Okay. I'll follow your lead on this one. But only if you promise me you won't go gung-ho crazy for them. Keep your head on straight." I can't lose you. But that's all there in _his_ eyes.

"I promise," Miles says, softly, not yet letting go. "I promise."

And with one last, lingering look he turns back to the young man watching them. "All right," he says, "we'll help you. But you gotta get these people to understand that taking out these bandits is a temporary fix at best. You're vulnerable out here. You need to think about moving on because once we've gone… I can't guarantee your safety."

Ollie nods several times, then bounces on his heels. "Thanks. I mean it. This is… You have no idea the difference this will make."

_Neither do you_ , Miles thinks, but isn't cold enough to say it.

"Get these people to disperse," he says, instead. "They should be safe for a while, so no need to hole up here. As for you… you better come with us. If we're going to do this, we need to know what we're up against."

Ollie looks suddenly nervous, but he nods nonetheless, finally re-sheathing his sword and turning back to the barricade. "OK everyone!" he shouts. "You can all go home for now. Keep your doors locked."

Jeremy is feeling a little left out, now, because it's hard enough splitting the two men up as it is and now he has to contend with this new kid too. "So what's the plan, Generals?" he asks.

Bass snorts and shakes his head. "We fly down this groove and find the tiny maintenance duct and use the power of the Force to blow up the Death Star."

Jeremy narrows his eyes. "I'm not being Chewbacca."

"You're not nearly hairy enough," Ollie remarks, having paced back over to them. "C'mon. I have maps. I can show you where these guys are."

Miles rolls his eyes at the lot of them but sets off after Ollie, who starts to lead them up the main street to a small house on the corner. Inside, there's very little – but crucially there's a table, with a large map pinned down on it and quite a few lines and arrows drawn on.

"See, we're here," Ollie says, indicating the little town, "and as far as I can tell, the bandits are holed up here–" – he points a short way out – "–by the bend of this river. I've snuck in close, and there's at least twelve of them; probably fourteen or fifteen. And most of them have horses. We think they got those from a riding school about twenty miles away – makes sense, because a lot of them ride like they don't really know what they're doing. Like… like that one who fell off."

Who you then shot in the stomach. And the head. Ollie may look confident, but underneath… there's a great deal of worry. But that has to be ignored. Has to be.

"Can we find the horse he fell off? It might come in handy," Bass muses. He's secretly impressed with the map. The kid has some innate talent. More than Jeremy, but he's not a bastard enough to say that.

"Want me to go try?" Jeremy offers.

"Might be helpful, at least when we're done in here," Miles answers. "But first, we need to think about this…"

He leans in over the map, eyes following the lay of the land between Allentown and where the bandits are hiding out. "If we got a team together… the four of us plus anyone from this place who's willing to fight… and if we spend the day giving everyone some basic training, we might stand a chance." He looks over at Ollie. "Do you think some of the townsfolk would pitch in if we gave them some guidance?"

"Some, yes," Ollie replies. "Enough to even the odds a little."

"Then it's settled," Miles agrees, with a nod. "Jeremy… see if you can find that horse. Ollie, go round up anyone who's willing to fight. Eighteen and over. Don't come back with kids, no matter how eager they are."

"And weapons. Anything. Big knives. Shotguns. Service revolvers." A smirk. "Swords," Bass adds. "The more stuff we can throw at them the better. And make sure they know they could well get hurt or worse."

Bass still isn't sure it's the most wonderful idea they have ever had.

Jeremy salutes, and with a "Sir, Yes, Sir," he's off to find the spooked animal. It might come in handy.

Miles waits for the other two to leave before turning back to Bass. "I know this isn't exactly what you wanted," he says. "But I still think it's the right thing to do. This… all of this… it isn't going to get better unless someone steps up. And we're a better choice than most."

"I know that," Bass replies. "But it's all academic, Miles, and you know it. Without law people are just gonna get bigger and bigger guns and the only ones left in towns will be the wolves. All the lambs will end up dead in a forest somewhere." Unless people like them move in.

There's a thought.

"You… you aren't considering staying, are you?" Bass isn't entirely sure how that idea sits with him.

Miles shakes his head. "No. I still want to get to Chicago. I need to find Ben, and Rachel and the kids. I don't want them left on their own in the same kind of chaos as this. And yes, part of me… part of me just wants to walk away, and get to Chicago as fast as possible, everyone else be damned. But another part of me can't. We signed up to defend people, Bass. We signed up to defend people and ended up doing nothing but fight foreigners on foreign soil. And if we were willing to fight there, and then… how can we walk away now?"

But now there are no orders. And Bass had felt… good about that. Free. He'd thought there was something more than just being a soldier. Hell. He'd wondered if the only reason he'd been one was an excuse to follow Miles around without being labelled queer.

However, that doesn't really explain why his heart had been pounding but his hands had been rock-steady as he'd wedged himself in the tree. Hasn't explained why training Jeremy and watching him flourish has been an achievement. Doesn't explain why he feels so alive around danger.

Fighting a sudden wave of dizziness, Bass sits down. Hands on his knees. He is a soldier, whatever else he is. He's a Marine. And these people do need him. "Okay," he says, looking up, aware of how heavy the decision feels. "Okay Miles. But we won't save everyone. We can't. People are going to die. And if we're doing this, we're… we're going to have to act like officers, even if we aren't."

"I know that," Miles replies, softly, moving over to put a hand on his shoulder. "It's… the way these things always are. But I'd rather a few people died than all of them. And I think they would too. As for us… we may not have been officers, but we know how to lead men into battle. We know what it takes." He drops down onto one knee so as to look Bass in the eyes. "We can do this, Bass."

He wants to convince the other man. Wants to convince him so badly. Partly so he has that conviction to fall back on… and partly because Miles knows he himself will be so much stronger if Bass is with him. He couldn't do this on his own. He'd probably still try… but he doesn't want to find out what would happen in that case.

"I don't want to be the reason people die," Bass confesses, struggling hard to keep his eyes on Miles. Very hard. "I know they will die anyway but… I don't…"

Want the responsibility. Which is the crux of it. He wants to grab Miles' hands. Wants to bury himself in the man's chest, until the world goes away. Wants to not be having this conversation.

What if I – what _when_ I – fuck up? He looks pleadingly at Miles, needing… reassurance. Something. Anything.

Miles can read the man too well. He moves right in front of him, still on his knees, resting both hands on Bass' shoulders and then sliding them up to stroke his jaw.

"If we want to stop people dying, this is the way to do it," he says, voice still soft. "The longer this anarchy endures, the worse it gets. We have to impose some kind of order or everything will spiral out of control. And I'm not talking about starting off some grand, insane master plan. I just think… helping is better than doing nothing." He smiles a little, gently tilting Bass' head up to meet his eyes. "And we're the only ones I trust to do that. You and me, Bass. You and me."

"If you're with me, I can do anything," Bass says, although he feels a bit weird under all this ridiculously gay attention. Doesn't mean he shrugs it off.

He sighs, closes his eyes, pushes forwards until their foreheads touch. Hands restless on the arms of the chair. "I just hope we do more help than harm. You know we never went for pips for a reason."

"Exactly," Miles says. "Because we know what it's _really_ like out there. And because we're the people best suited to face it. Now, come on… we should go find out what we've got to work with…"

He rises smoothly to his feet and pauses to look at the map again, just for a moment.

This is do-able. It is.

Bass takes longer to get up, but he does. "Just don't make me ride the horse, okay."

***


	2. 1B - Baby, When The Lights Go Out

Just after nightfall the small army gathers. They number about twenty, varying from Ollie's age up to a guy of about seventy-five who turned out to be the toughest of the lot. They are hefting a ridiculous combination of tools and weapons, the few guns they could rustle up all the way up to pitchforks.

Bass shakes his head at them. They look like a mob about ready to go storm Castle Frankenstein, and only the danger of announcing their presence is keeping them from brandishing burning torches.

He waits until Jeremy comes out with the horse. The horse, with the dead gang ringleader strapped into the saddle. They've shoved a spade down the back of his shirt and tied him to it to keep him mostly upright, but there's only so much you can do. Especially when rigor has mostly set in and the legs look like they were broken into position. Bass is very glad Jeremy drew that short straw, even if the man still looks like he's going to puke.

"I want you to stay with me," Bass says. "Miles will take care of that ridiculous kid, and I want to make sure you're all right."

Jeremy nods, but he looks mostly grim. "All right, Bass. You got any last-minute advice for me?"

"Remember you want to live more than they do."

"I am not ridiculous!" comes a voice from behind them, as Ollie walks up. He's managed to persuade Miles to give him one of the handguns, but still has the wakizashi strapped to his waist. It feels better to keep it, even though… even though he knows he'll have to use the gun when the moment comes. To get close enough with the sword… it'd get him shot first.

This is a little terrifying. A lot terrifying, really. But it's also the best things have been since… since a long time.

Jeremy turns to him and… laughs. "Oh, kid, you're precious," he says, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. "I wish I'd had your balls when I was your age."

Further back, the townsfolk are talking under their breath, pointing surreptitiously at the mounted corpse. Bass doesn't like how frightened they look. "When I was his age I was already shooting people dead," he decides to say. Maybe that will make the pathetic little mob feel better.

Ollie gives Jeremy a rather furious look, but it's hard to be angry with one of the men who's risking everything to help them, so he just sticks his tongue out for a second and then turns to face forward, arms folded in an aloof, cooler-than-you-no-really sort of a way.

Up ahead of them, Miles clambers up onto a wall so he can speak to the motley group. "This is it, everyone. I know you've only had an afternoon to prepare, but trust me, it will help. Remember what we taught you. Shoot when you have to, but don't go crazy. One bullet can make far more of a difference than ten, especially if you take the extra second to aim it better. We'll stay close together as we make our way out, and stop in the cover of the ridge near their camp. Once we're in place, we'll send the horse out as a distraction, and when they open the gates… we charge."

He pauses. Looks over at Bass and Jeremy for a moment. "I won't lie to you. People are going to get hurt. You're going to _see_ people get hurt. But you need to stay strong. You need to remember why we're doing this. Fight on for your friends, for Allentown. For your home."

Bass pauses. It's so strange listening to Miles talk like this. His Miles. His wonderful Miles. And he wonders if maybe he's been holding the man back all along. Wonders if it's time he stopped. With a sudden impulse of loyalty, he jumps up right next to him on the wall.

"You're not soldiers," Bass says, his voice louder than usual. "But you don't need to be to know what's right and what's wrong. And you might not be trained killers – but neither are they. You're fighting for something real. And you have us fighting right beside you."

He casts a quick glance over to Miles – hoping to see some reaction from him, as much as from the people. The people he now realises he knows fuck all about, who owe him next to nothing, and he's somehow lecturing them.

He needn't have worried. The confidence of the two of them is enough to make one woman – a housewife in her thirties – cheer. "For Allentown!"

And at all of that – at the shout, and at Bass jumping up beside him – Miles can't help a grin. Fuck but he feels so _alive_ all of a sudden. "For Allentown!" he echoes, and suddenly they're all doing it, punching the air and waving weapons they've only just learned how to use.

Some of them are going to die. But better to die for something than to die for nothing.

"Move out!" Miles says, as the shout dies down, and then he jumps from the wall, ready to lead the way.

Bass follows him down, and automatically goes to the left of him, bringing up the other side. He claps Jeremy on the shoulder for good measure, and Jeremy grins as he tugs the horse along behind him.

It's hard to walk in almost-silence after that. Because there's so much going on. Bass can feel the hysteria of the crowd. Can feel how desperate they are to run out on a killing spree. These people who were shopkeepers and auto-mechanics and hairdressers and office workers. It's stupid. But there's no shops, no cars, no blow driers and no photocopiers now. Just fighting and surviving. Before long, what they were before won't matter except as a bedtime story.

"Is it always this exciting?" Jeremy whispers to Bass.

"Yeah. Yeah… the final part always is," Bass admits. There's no reason to deny, and now they're doing something… it's hard to believe he ever thought he could give it up.

"You people are a little crazy," Ollie points out, still hovering close to Jeremy (because he's less scary than the other two). "But I guess you're the good kind of crazy."

"Well, that makes four of us," Miles remarks, with another grin.

"Kid, I've done tours in places you'd wet yourself to know about," Bass says, feeling a little bitchy again. "You have to be crazy to be a Marine."

Jeremy whacks Bass on the arm. "They were on their own for a while before they found me," he says to Ollie, trying to explain away the rudeness.

"Yeah, but I was crazy before the lights went out." For a moment, there's something in those blue eyes of his. Bass turns them onto Ollie, and one look would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. It's the trenches. The lying silent in a field for hours. The realising you have nothing left any more because of a single drunk driver. And then as fast as it was there, Crazy Bass is gone. And he laughs.

Ollie goes suddenly quiet, trying to back off a little without making it too obvious. He's… OK, yes, he's a little scared. Well, a lot scared. A lot scared and trying very, very hard to hide it. But not just because of Bass.

Miles claps Bass on the shoulder again, trying to keep the mood under control. "Stop winding up the locals," he says, but there's concern in his eyes; concern meant only for Bass to see, though he realises that maybe Jeremy will be able to spot it too by now.

"He started it," Bass grumbles, but he does pull himself more under control.

Jeremy is no fool. And he realises someone has to do something. "So, Ollie, you ever shot anything before? I was a pretty good shot. On Call of Duty."

"Never shot anything real. But I bet I could have kicked your ass on Call of Duty. I was crazy good at it, though that was mostly because my older brother never played anything else and I needed to keep up."

"Older brother, huh?" Miles says. "Is he in amongst this lot?"

Ollie's expression… goes sort of distant. "No. No. He's… He wasn't around when the Blackout hit. Lives over in Pennsylvania now. Harrisburg."

"Well I can't show you my gamerscore any more, so I guess we'll have to do it the old fashioned way," Jeremy tells him. "Didn't you want to look for your brother? What happened to your parents?"

Now Ollie's expression closes off completely, in a way it hasn't since they first arrived. "It's a long way to go to find him, and I couldn't make it on my own. As for our parents, they, uh… they were killed in a car crash about three months before the Blackout. Rob said I could go over to Harrisburg to live with him but I wanted to stay in Indiana. It's home. So I moved into a place on my own. I was saving up to go to college when the world went haywire."

He says all this… rather fast. Very smoothly, but rather fast.

Which means Bass feels like a monumental dick. Biting his lip, he punches Ollie in the arm. "You've done good," he says, trying to sound reassuring.

But he doesn't want to say 'sure, come along with us, why don't we start an underground railroad for loners'. Plus it's completely out of their way. Completely. "Maybe you could take a horse and head out to find him when this is done. Take some people with you?"

Jeremy nods sagely. "Yeah I'm sure he's waiting to hear from you. Maybe he's even coming back to find you?"

Ollie nods, and bites his lip. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm sure you're right."

He doesn't say any more though.

By now, they're well out of Allentown and moving down a path which skirts the edge of the fields, close to a broad forest. In the distance there are points of firelight, some of them moving – obviously the camp where the bandits are holed up. Peering through the darkness, Miles can make out a series of rough but sturdy-looking wooden walls, just as Ollie said, marking out the perimeter of the camp.

Well. They've got a plan for that.

He leads the way along to the ridge, making everyone follow it, knowing it will keep them all covered and out of sight. Eventually they all come to a halt, looking down towards the camp – which is now very close. The points of firelight have become figures holding torches, moving about in the darkness.

"This is it," Miles says, voice low, speaking just to Bass and Jeremy – and Ollie, it seems – to begin with.

"I'm ready when you are. I'll go left, if you go right," Bass says. "Split them into two straight down the middle?"

The horse makes a snicking noise and Jeremy puts his finger on its nose. The horse doesn't look convinced.

"Agreed," Miles replies. "Jeremy, get ready to send the horse out." He stands up a little higher, staying in cover, but making himself more visible to their rag-tag band of followers. "Everyone… this is it. Wait for my signal."

He pauses, looking out over the edge of the ridge one last time. Takes a deep, slow breath… and then looks to Jeremy again. "OK," he says. "Now."

Jeremy points the horse in the right direction and slaps it on the ass. It's possible he's always wanted to do that. Like jumping in a cab and saying 'follow that car!' But he won't be able to do that any more.

The horse brays horribly, bucks hard enough that the dead man on top nearly falls off, and slumps over the horse's neck when its forehooves come back down. Already spooked, it gallops straight at the gate, knowing it needs to get home to its little herd.

Inside the camp, there's noise and movement. The horse stamps impatiently at the gate, sounding more distressed by the moment. And eventually the argument inside resolves and the gate slowly opens, letting the terrified animal bolt inside.

Bass can't help himself. He knows it's time. He screams: "CHARGE!"

And in a flurry of confusion and adrenaline, the small strike force pours in through the gates, slamming them back into the people trying to close them.

It's mostly chaos, but Miles has known all along that expecting anything more would be stupid. It is, at least, pleasingly furious chaos – the people charging all at once, spilling into the wooden-walled compound in a flurry of shouts and gunfire. He moves quickly, knowing that the more bandits he and Bass can take out, the less will remain to threaten the rest of the attackers. Townsfolk. Whatever they are.

Militia, maybe. With the right to bear arms, and all that. Finally the Second Amendment means something again.

"For Allentown!" someone shouts, off to the side – and then there's a rough gunshot, obviously from a shotgun, and the speaker collapses over backwards. Seconds later, someone else screams, jumping on the shooter in a frenzy.

At least they're determined. Maybe they always were. Maybe they just needed someone to remind them that they could be.

Rifle up, Miles takes down a bandit he's sure he recognises from the standoff in the square, shooting him twice in the chest and then cracking him about the head with the gun for good measure. Then, just as he's about to move deeper into the compound, he hears a rather shrill yell.

It's Ollie; a particularly tall bandit advancing on him, holding not a gun but a knife. Ollie's eyes are wide and terrified but filled with fury all at once; a mixture that's impossible to live with and difficult to ignore.

"Shoot him!" Miles yells, kicking someone aside in a rush to get closer.

But Ollie can't. Frantic, he sticks the gun back in his belt and whips out the sword. The bandit just laughs, holding his arms wide in a mocking sort of way.

"Think you can use that on me, boy?"

"…Let's fucking find out!" Ollie yells – and before the bandit has a chance to realise what a goddamn idiot he's been, Ollie runs him through with the sword. The guy stares down at his chest, eyes wide in shock, before he drops to his knees in a swirl of blood.

Yanking the blade out proves rather more difficult, but by this point Miles has gotten close enough, and without waiting – or asking permission – he grabs hold of the hilt and gives it a sharp tug.

There's more blood. Ollie looks slightly nauseous. And slightly alive.

Miles hands the sword back. "Stay close to me this time."

Meanwhile Bass is moving like a maniac, shooting people with the insane, cold precision of someone who finds this second nature. It's a long time since he was in an all-out close-combat situation, but it all comes back to him. Bam, dead. Bam, dead. The only thing stopping him wiping out half the base on his own is Jeremy just behind him. Bass has to go a bit slower, to make sure Jeremy keeps up. He hears the odd shot from behind but he can't quite work out if Jeremy is responsible for them or not.

And then there's a yell of shock from behind Bass, and when he turns he sees that Jeremy has been wrestled to the floor. The shotgun is held between them, and the two of them are wrestling around on the floor.

"HIT HIM," Bass yells. "FUCKING HIT HIM," as he brings his rifle to bear, struggling for a shot in the constant tousling.

Then the shotgun goes off. And it's clearly enough of a shock, because Bass sees Jeremy's knee go up between the other man's legs. And then Jeremy is up in a flash – another kick to the head, like he was taught – and Bass takes the opportunity to shoot the man dead, while Jeremy is backing away.

Jeremy looks up in shock, and Bass nods down at the shotgun. And then there's a lunatic on _him_ and it's back to tooth and nail fighting.

The whole skirmish doesn't actually last all that long – not after the initial wave of activity. Pretty soon, the noise is diminishing, the gunfire becoming more sporadic, until, finally… silence.

And then, someone shouts, "W-we… we did it! We really did it!"

There's a number of echoing cheers… but not as many as before.

"Start looking for survivors," Miles calls out. "Find any of our people who need help."

Who are still alive.

But there's only one _he's_ looking for. Hurried, he scrambles over the battlefield, over the bodies, searching for…

"BASS!"

Bass is on all fours, panting. His lip is bloodied and he's sweaty and covered in other people's blood. Mostly he's exhausted from the fisticuffs it all descended to, and he's wiping his knife dry on a body to put it back into its sheath.

But he feels… alive. His blood is thrumming. His muscles teeming with all the exertion. The danger. He pushes himself up from the body, and turns to Miles. He wipes the back of his hand over his temple, smearing more blood into his very messy hair. And he looks like some bloody, avenging angel.

"Miles," he croaks out, and goes immediately to him, so relieved he's all in one piece. The rest of the crowd fades to nothing. It's just them.

Miles just grabs hold of him, the terror that had flared in his chest suddenly collapsing into… into _this_ … into seizing him and kissing him like nothing in the world matters and he doesn't give a fuck who sees. He crushes the man in tight, hands all over him, kissing him and kissing him until oxygen becomes a necessity – and then kissing him again once he's spent a reluctant second breathing.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers, when he finally breaks from kissing long enough to speak. "When I couldn't see you, I thought… _fuck_ …"

Probably best to kiss him some more. Just to be certain.

Bass could get used to this. Maybe he should get into some more peril so Miles holds him like this. Kisses him like this. His hands are in Miles' hair, holding him close and giving back as good as he gets. It fucking hurts his lip but it's a good hurt. An alive hurt. And Miles is alive too and Bass proves it to himself by pressing bodily against him.

His hands move to Miles' ass, and he yanks him in hard for a body-check. Lets Miles feel how he's straining the front of his fatigues. Grinds hard into him.

He doesn't give a shit who sees. He's barely a step away from sliding the man's legs around his waist and slamming him into the nearest sturdy structure. "Fuck but I love you," he growls into Miles' ear. "I want to screw you so badly right now. You think you can order them all to fuck off without making it clear I'm sucking your cock? Or do you think I could bring you off before anyone comes looking?"

Thankfully, Jeremy has seen fit to start corralling people up closer to the entrance, which means they have at least a little privacy. Possibly also why Bass didn't come back to the gate.

All of that sounds good. Just too good, and it's hard not to just throw caution to the wind – along with decency, decorum and all those other strangely pointless things – and go along with all of it, Allentown be damned. But somehow, Miles manages to pull himself together, putting a hand on Bass' chest.

"Not here," he says. "We need to get these people back to the town. Then… then we'll find somewhere. Anywhere. Fuck, Bass, they might even have spare _beds_."

And after months of sleeping – and indeed, fucking – in nothing but a tent (or that barn), an actual _bed_ has to be worth waiting for.

Bass growls in frustration, his eyes doing that 'fucknowyesplease' thing they do when he's about to devour the man whole. So he grabs Miles' ass harder, pulls him in for one long, slow rub of pants on pants. Fingers trailing between his ass-cheeks. Promising so much.

"If you don't let me fuck you through the mattress, Miles, I might die." He punctuates this with a sharp bite to the underneath of Miles' jaw. Nothing like almost dying to make you want to live.

And then – with all the self-control he can manage – Bass drops Miles and steps back. Then he slings his rifle back in front of him, and carries it low to cover his crotch. It won't be the best camouflage ever but it gives him a reason for his hands to be in the area.

"Now get them back to town, before I change my mind and we make Jeremy do it."

Angry, demanding Bass is all kinds of hot. Miles actually cracks off a deliberately sloppy salute before turning and starting to do sensible, organisational things, on which his mind is no longer fully focused.

Between them, they get the townsfolk together and start leading them out. There's enough uninjured to carry the injured, though not the dead… and oh, there are quite a few dead. A rough headcount isn't easy in the dark, but Miles reckons they've lost at least six.

Six. Dead. But it's far less than might have been lost if they'd left the people undefended.

Together, they start off back towards Allentown. They don't have to move stealthily anymore – several of the townsfolk light up torches – but there's an odd edge to the mood. They've won, but people have died, and they clearly don't know how to react to that.

When they make it back to the town, Ollie starts directing people to take the wounded off, urging them to look after each other as best they can. There doesn't seem to be a doctor around and there's a very real risk that more people are going to die from their wounds if they're not treated properly.

But they do what they can.

Once the people are dispersing back to their homes, Ollie comes over to Miles, Bass and Jeremy, looking… hopeful.

"You guys are planning to stay the night, aren't you? Only… I have somewhere you could sleep, if you wanted. I… sort of made arrangements before we set out, in case you weren't just going to disappear off into the darkness…"

He looks hesitant, but ploughs on regardless, turning more specifically to Miles and Bass. "I figured the two of you would want somewhere… uh… private. There's another empty house next to where I'm staying. Guy who lived there left ages ago, I'm told. So you can use it. If you want to, that is."

Bass is trying really, really hard not to yell 'Yes' and carry Miles over the threshold. Really hard. On account of the social skills. Thingy. "That… would be really nice," he manages.

Jeremy looks a little troubled. "Was it a big house?" he asks. And realises he's sounding tactless, but he's tired and it's late and he might for once be able to sleep without hearing the dulcet sounds of the Monroe-Matheson nightly debrief. Or morning debrief.

"Reasonably," Ollie replies, "but…" – that hopeful look again – "…I thought maybe you'd want to stay with me. I have a spare room, and plenty of food, and…"

And it would be nice to have someone else around. He continues to look hopeful.

"I would be delighted to take your spare room," Jeremy says, beaming like a brilliant sunshine. Thank god Ollie has sense, he thinks. "I'm not going to be much conversation until tomorrow but I can cook a mean breakfast if you let me loose in the kitchen."

Ollie bounces on his heels again, looking pleased. "Breakfast too! Is there anything you people can't do?"

Bass grabs Miles' hand. This is fucking perfect. "If you want to point out your house, we can swing by in the morning? I have a feeling we'll all be getting up late tomorrow?"

Miles, meanwhile, just looks content. It's a weird state of mind for him, especially after what they've just gone through. "Late is good with me… for once," he agrees. Oh fuck yes.

Ollie starts leading them back through the main street, up to the row of houses where he's staying. Judging by the lack of candlelight in any of the windows, there aren't many people still living up here. Once they get closer, he points to the house next to his.

"There you go," he says, "It's been empty for months but I got some of the townspeople to sort it out for you whilst we were gone. There should be reasonably hot water in the bath and food in the kitchen, and… I hope it goes a little way towards repaying you for what you did tonight…" He gives them… an almost sheepish look. "You saved a lot of people. So. Thank you."

"…You don't have to thank us, kid," Miles says, trying for Serious Manly Voice and managing something close but rather warmer.

"But a bath and a bed and I'm almost anyone's," Bass says. And claps Ollie on the shoulder again, to make up for any times he's been a dick in the last… hour. Day. Whatever.

"Great!" Ollie replies, beaming again. And then he gestures to Jeremy. "Come on. I'll show you my place." You could almost misconstrue what he's saying – but there's not a hint of anything underhand or, indeed, flirtatious. Just good old-fashioned gratitude and hospitality. And hope. Lots of hope.

"It looks nice enough from the outside. You don't want to know how long I've been sleeping in the spare damn tent…" Jeremy says, following him into the house.

Which leaves Miles and Bass. For a minute, Bass can't even move. He watches the other two go, and he realises he's still holding Miles' hand. In a silly, gay way. Oh, fuck it. He's nervous. It feels… big. He's not sure why.

"Take me… home?" he asks, a tiny shy tremor in his voice. The fire and fury of before briefly dimmed in the pitch-black of old suburban America. It's so surreal. It reminds him of taking girls home from the movies. Admittedly he's in a worse state than he ever saw any of his dates. He hopes Miles doesn't find the filth and the blood distressing.

Miles puts an arm around Bass' shoulders. "Come on," he says, softly, feeling the weight of the moment a little too. That and, now they're finally on their own… he can also feel the weight of what they've done tonight. It's a lot to process.

He leads the way up to the house, following the path in the semi-darkness, slowly becoming more aware of how exhausted and covered in blood he is. It's… well. An alarmingly familiar feeling, if truth be told.

"We need to wash," Bass says, even though he knows Miles will know too. "I stink like an abattoir. And I feel like I've rolled around in a pig-sty." Way to be romantic, Bass.

And they're at the door. And something stops him. Something makes him pause. He turns and looks down the dark street, to the lights winking out in houses further down. For a moment, he can't breathe. "We… did this. We… saved them."

It feels… strangely good. Bass turns to look at Miles. Really look at him. "You… you did this. You saved them all. I would have just left them and you've given them hope, and a home."

" _We_ saved them, Bass," Miles points out; opening the door, which has been left unlocked, but pausing on the step, looking out at the town. "I couldn't have done this without you. We saved them and… yeah. We did good. So be glad about that." He gestures into the house, smiling just a little now. "And be glad that you're probably about to have the best night's sleep you've had since we left Port Royal."

Assuming they do actually sleep, of course.

"Miles Matheson… you get a bed with me and you're thinking about sleep?" Bass pouts. He follows him inside, but instead of keeping a reasonable distance he's suddenly in the man's personal space. Crowding him to the wall.

"Warm bath, Miles. No more cold lakes. I'm going to lather little suds all over you. And then I'm going to rub every last aching muscle." His eyes are dark with promise again, the moment of contemplation over as they get closer to the goal.

"That's more like it…" Miles says, with a pleased little growl, kicking the door shut and then sliding arms around him. "Though we'd better go quickly, or we'll make it about as far as the living room floor…"

He pushes Bass back, but grabs hold of his arm, tugging him up the stairs – stairs! – and in the direction of the bathroom.

It really is quite a nice house. From the décor, it evidently used to belong to a man, though it's hard to tell if he lived alone as most of the personal effects have been cleared out. Locating the bathroom takes only a moment, and in it there's a good-sized bath filled with water. Fairly warm water – and really, Ollie must have had half a dozen townspeople running a bucket relay up the stairs just to get it ready in time. Miles makes a mental note to thank the kid again in the morning.

Right now, though… he has other things on his mind.

Bass is eager, and as soon as they reach the bathroom he starts tearing Miles' clothes off. Only the fact the man is filthy is keeping his mouth back. That will soon be fixed. His hands stroke wherever he bares, and when it's Miles' ass he grabs it hard and pulls them in for a groin-check again. Yep. Still interested. He doesn't touch Miles' cock yet, though… that's for later.

"I want to lick you clean, then take you dripping into the bed and fuck you so hard you think you're already in Chicago," Bass growls, in the last few moments before they move into the bath.

At the same time, Miles is pulling Bass' clothes off – the only thing keeping them from colliding horribly being too much practice – making sure his hands rove just as much as the other man's, wanting to touch him all over. Wanting to feel him there; real and alive and powerful, the heat of the battle suddenly thundering in his head again.

"Fuck, yes," he growls, as they both yank each other down into the bath. Water splashes everywhere, but there's more room than he expected. It's a big bath.

And oh. It hurts. The heat makes him suddenly aware of how much he aches, and the places where he's been injured – neither of them have anything serious, but minor injuries were inevitable, given the fighting. But all of that fades into the background almost at once. He doesn't care. Doesn't think about anything else. Just Bass.

Bass surges for him like a wave, a force of nature you just can't deny. Somehow they fall so Miles is on top – it happens – and he has hold of the man's face, pulling him in to kiss him hard. They splash more water out and he feels a bit guilty about the waste, but light-headed at the sheer indulgence of it. Then he dips his hands into the water, and brings them up to Miles' shoulders. And strokes down, down, down over his back and to his ass. Washing the grime and the sweat from him. Oh, it feels good to do that. He has knees and elbows pressing into him uncomfortably and he doesn't give a shit.

"Oh god you feel good," Bass says, as sensibly as he can. "I just wish to god we had a working shower." Another sweep of his hands, from the back of his neck down to his ass. Grabbing the tight bunch of muscle, kneading it carefully but firmly. Clean, Bass. You're trying to clean him first. Not shove a finger in while… Oops.

Miles has his hands all over Bass again, working on cleaning him too, loving the feeling as well as all the delicious contact… and then the man goes and does _that_ , and his eyes go unfocused.

"…Fuck, Bass," he breathes, hotly, against the other man's lips. "You deviant. I fucking love you."

But he can give as good as he gets, especially when they're pressed in so close like this, and he pushes a hand in between Bass' legs, grabbing hold of his cock and giving it a slow, firm stroke.

Bass' eyes roll up into his head, and he thrusts into Miles' hand, but then he grabs the wrist with his other hand. "Careful. I want to make sure I can fuck you as hard as you need. And you know I can't resist you."

Doesn't stop him using that finger, swirling it around, sliding it in and out of him. The hand on his wrist lets go, and with difficulty he's laving over Miles' chest. Trying to stroke an ankle over a calf. They really need to focus on the getting clean thing first but it's hard when the red haze comes down in front of his eyes.

"Kneel up more so we can clean our chests," Bass insists. And also because he can keep his finger in his ass like that. And Miles will have to sit on it. Which is also a good thing.

"Oh, I know," Miles replies. "Which leaves me very tempted to overpower you right here… except I'm rather looking forward to you overpowering _me_ over _there_. So I might just see fit to behave…"

And to get us both clean pretty damn quick, before need gets the better of him – of them both – and they end up full-on screwing in the bath. Which would have been a far more attractive prospect had they not both been covered in blood and mud to begin with.

He shifts position when Bass urges him to, perhaps slightly faster than common sense would dictate because that finger is doing terrible, terrible, wicked things to him. Wicked things that make him growl in pleasure, head dropping back.

Bass loves seeing Miles so into this. Loves seeing the power he has over him. How he can pull him apart with just one finger in the right place. And his Miles is a bloody, triumphant hero right now. That's all kinds of hot too. Finger still in him, his other hand makes light work of scrubbing him pink and clean, using a loofah which the last occupant had abandoned. Makes sense.

"You know when I've had my way with you, I'm going to find it hard to fight your lecherous advances off," Bass promises. "Or… maybe in the morning… if you enjoy yourself too much." He smirks at that. He's fucked Miles into a screaming, boneless orgasm more than a few times.

When he's convinced Miles is clean enough, he grabs the handle on the bath and sits up, latching his mouth onto the side of Miles' neck, sucking and biting his way down to the faint moon-silver lines his teeth left not all that long ago. That always makes them both even less sensible, and with a slop and a splash of yet more water, along with the most unholy of squelching noises of flesh on porcelain, Bass rolls them and pins Miles down, straddling his hips and grabbing both their cocks in one hand. A thrust. Two. And he's biting his lip and trying to remember it's a bad idea. Bad. Idea. Another thrust and stroke for good measure.

Miles is just about ready with another smart reply when Bass does _that_ , and it's like he hasn't just been flipped around but flipped right _under_ , and it takes him a second to remember that, yes, he can still actually breathe. He stares back at Bass, breathless and already half out of his mind – and utterly unable to keep his hands off the man.

"Fuck, Bass, we'll never even _make_ it to bed at this rate," he points out, trying to remind himself – through the rising mental fog – why he actually wants to.

"Get me clean, then. Fast." It's an order, low and guttural. Bass is finding it difficult to think more than a few seconds ahead, but he does manage to prise his hand from their cocks (so hard, so silky and warm and wet and willing and fuck yes…) and put both hands on the bath handles. He stares down at Miles full of dark purpose. The muscles in his forearms twitch in protest at holding him like this. And baths are not made for two full grown – and tall – men.

A devious urge overtakes Miles at that – just long enough to make him grab Bass and pull him back down to kiss bruisingly hard, before pushing him back up with an I'm-bad-and-I-know-it look on his face, and starting to wash off everywhere he hasn't managed to reach just yet.

He works quickly, wanting them to move before they both forget why they should again. Because. Bed. In a world of tents and lakes, 'bed' more or less equates to 'paradise.'

But it isn't easy. Isn't easy when he's got his hands all over the man, rubbing over his ass, over his chest, along those strong, wonderful arms, and he has to keep reminding himself that grabbing the man and kissing him hard again would be…

OK, OK, but just this once… So he pulls Bass down when he's done, sliding a hand around the back of his head and kissing him like there's no tomorrow. Just tonight.

Bass enjoys the touches, but he's trembling with unhidden wanting. He tries to relax under the hands, tries to let the stroking soothe him. And when Miles pulls him in for another kiss, he's just wound enough to be cruel too. He lets go of the bath, grabs the other man's head and lets gravity push them both back down, heads submerging in the backflow of water. He kisses him hard. Bites at his lip, and when Miles' mouth opens, sticks his tongue inside, thrusting with it like he wants to be doing with something else. Somewhere else.

And eventually that feeling is too much to ignore, and he pulls out of the kiss and the water, tossing his head back and spraying water everywhere. His smile is wolfish. "Bed," he says, the word barely English any more. And with way more grace than he should have, he's out of the bath and hauling Miles out after him.

Miles follows without a second's hesitation; breathless all over again from being dunked underwater but together enough to seize up a towel – fuck, Ollie really had thought of everything – to get them at least dry-ish before they tumble into bed.

"Come here, you," he growls, attempting to get the towel around them both so they don't have to break contact whilst he's trying to pretend he's vaguely sensible. Which would be hard to believe from just one look in his dark-shot eyes right now.

Bass doesn't give two shits if he's dry or not, and from the way his eyes flicker to the door it's clear he's a breath away from refusing. But a vague memory of cold, wet sheets at night stirs him and he consents, fingers up scraping Miles' shoulders again, pushing into the bunches of muscle and nerve, knowing just where to apply pressure. He's worrying that little mark again, teeth pressed over the outline, hot breath and tongue stroking the flesh between.

Eventually he's sure they're dry enough. And even though it's not particularly easy, he pushes Miles into the wall and his hands find his ass. He tugs meaningfully at his legs, trying to convince him to wrap them around him so he can carry him. It's not far to go, and Miles isn't heavy. And Bass feels like he could lift a mountain.

"You drive me crazy," Bass tells him. "You make me want to take over the world, just to drop it at your feet. I'd fucking do it, Miles. Don't doubt me. I'd do it."

Miles tosses the towel aside at that, wrapping his arms around Bass and – oh, fuck it – his legs too, even though he's not at all sure the man can… wait, yes, apparently he can. Which means he's pressed in close and looking down at Bass when he speaks, the words making a truly wicked grin cross Miles' own face.

"Maybe one day I'll hold you to that," he says, and kisses him again. "Kings of the world, you and me. Oh fuck yes."

It's a bit weird, holding him like this. Bass has to shift about to get the weight distributed just right, but when he does it's much easier than he expected. Arm around his waist, one braced below his shoulderblades. Cock pressed into his stomach. If he glances down he can see it, and it makes him even hungrier.

"No fucking gay Titanic shit, though," Bass insists. And then – laughing at his clumsiness – he walks the few steps from the bathroom to the bedroom, glad the doors are all ajar because if not this would have been an exercise in pointlessness.

But then they're in a strange bedroom. And it's theirs. He walks them up to the edge of the bed, until Miles' thighs bump the edge. He shoves him down and follows straight after, climbing up and going for his hands to push them over his head. Face so close he can feel his breath. "We're more Bonny and Clyde than that. Or… or… I don't know. Did they even make films like this?"

He should stop talking. Should get to business. But he's crouched over Miles, holding him down, and he's just… mesmerised by his dark, deep eyes. By the stubble on his cheeks. The flare of his nostrils. There's just a little light from the moon creeping in, making it all glancing notes of moon on skin. The whites of his eyes are shining. Bass is no poet or painter, but he's struck with the beauty of it.

"Not the sort of films that got released in movie theatres," Miles points out, with another wicked grin. He doesn't resist being thrown back, though – or, indeed, pinned. If truth be told, he finds he rather likes it. A fucking lot. It's hard not to, even though some part of him still wants to resist being out of control, still wants to resist giving in, still insists upon fighting back when provoked – because the rest of him is perfectly happy with it. Craving it, almost – the way it feels when he's trapped like this. The look in Bass' eyes. The heat in the air and in their breath… like raw need made manifest.

And. They're in _bed_ , and it's the first bed they've had since leaving Port Royal, and definitely the first bed they've been in together, and it's really far too wonderful.

But his mind is fixed on darker things.

"You were fucking magnificent tonight, Bass," Miles tells him, breathing hotly against his lips. Suddenly… craving the thunder of the battle again.

"I was?" Bass asks, sounding surprised that Miles thinks so. "It was… it was just business as usual." Although there's a note in his voice that says he quite likes it when Miles talks like this.

He wants to savage his mouth again, but that will stop the talking. So he nips at Miles’ jaw, moves so he can hold both hands and… no, he wants his own free. He sits back just enough to open all the nearby drawers, looking for a tie or something. What he finds is much better. Metal. Heavy. Clunking. Whoever used to live here had… tastes. Bass hangs the handcuffs from one finger, swirling them back and forth. He quirks an eyebrow, a last concession to Miles' feelings. Licking his lips at the thought of all that… freedom.

And that sends a shot of pleasure through Miles so fast, it feels like he's been hit – and his eyes go from dark to _black_ in a second. He's… it would be a lie to say he hadn't thought about what it would be like, if they got an opportunity like this. He's thought about it – both ways, yes, but perhaps more _this_ way than he'd openly admit. He just didn't expect it to happen… and especially not now.

He nods. Suddenly finds he can't quite get the words out – but one look in his eyes would be answer enough.

Bass can't even smile. He feels like all the breath has gone out of his body, he's so lightheaded with the possibilities. He holds out a hand for one of Miles', and snaps the cuff in place. And then there's a brief moment of panic and he scrambles back in the drawer… only to find his breath on an out-sigh.

Thank fuck. There _is_ a key. He reaches the cuffs up, stretching Miles' arm out, and passes the empty one around one of the bars of the headboard. Of course the previous occupant would have been thoughtful enough for that. Bass gently urges Miles' other arm up, and snaps the second cuff in place.

And then he's… there. Stuck. Held. Bound. Fuck.

Bass chews hard on the inside of his lip. Fuck but it looks good. So amazingly, incredibly good. Naked Miles, cuffed to the bed. "Fuck, Miles. Fuck." His eyes rover over his lover, drinking it all in. "Fuck…"

Miles takes a very deep breath. He doesn't do surrendering. Doesn't do… submitting. Except, it seems, for Bass Monroe.

He gives a single, firm tug on his wrists, and the sensation of how firmly he's held knocks all the air right back out of his lungs. He's trapped. Absolutely, utterly trapped. And fuck, but it feels… _good_. That sensation starts to come back… the one that feels like all the electricity is returning to the world via him, racing through his body.

" _Fuck_ ," he echoes, the shock getting the better of him, unable to take his eyes off the other man.

"Wait here," Bass says, because he knows he has to do the next thing before he loses his nerve. Before the need is too much. But he still bends down for a quick, firm kiss.

And he vanishes into the bathroom to fetch… things.

When he comes back, he stands in the doorway. It's hard to work out from his silhouette what he's got. He pauses – for the drama – and stares.

"Miles."

This takes Miles a little by surprise – not to mention the fact that the lack of contact leaves him _wanting_ all over. He pushes up as much as he can, trying to see what's going on – trying to fight the flurry of sensations that rush through him as he realises all over again how firmly he's held.

"…Bass?" he says. Fuck but he already sounds wrecked.

"Do you trust me, Miles?" Bass asks. His voice is… strained, and a little distant. It's a great effort to talk. He doesn't move further into the room. He just stands where he is. "How much do you trust me?"

"With my _life_ , Bass," Miles answers. "You know that."

And he means it. Doesn't stop his heart thundering in his chest, though.

Bass takes slow, careful steps to the bed. There's the noise of something heavy and metal laid onto the bedside table. His gun. And – because he is a practical man – the lube. But his hands still aren't empty.

"You got hard thinking about me fighting today, didn't you, Miles?" Bass asks. His voice is utterly, utterly calm now. Something else is taking over. Not eradicating the need, but… sharpening it. Focussing it. Using it.

A single warm finger touches the inside of Miles' ankle, strokes slowly up to behind his knee. "You saw me all bloody and you wanted me even more."

It's a question, but his voice doesn't go up.

" _Yes_ ," comes the answer, somewhere between honesty and ecstasy. "Yes. You're magnificent when you fight. I don't know why I didn't see it this way years ago… but I can't miss it now."

He can't fight the wave of shock at knowing Bass has a fucking _gun_ , though, and the sound of it hitting the table does all kinds of terrible things to the inside of his mind. Brings up all kinds of… terrible, wonderful images.

Damn, his head is fucked up. All of him is fucked up.

"So you're going to go looking for trouble, so I want to fuck you harder, aren't you?" There's no judgement in Bass' tone, but wry amusement. His finger tracks higher, urging Miles' legs to part with just the pressure of one digit. "You're going to find fights, so you can satisfy your blood-lust. You sick fuck." He sounds proud. He sounds… high.

His finger trails up to rub the warm flesh just behind Miles' balls. Teases a little higher, but doesn't give what it's promising.

"So what if I am?" Miles answers, fighting through the mental fog to meet strength with strength. "You love it too. We both do. It's in our blood. And you'll enjoy every second… because you're just as fucked up as I am."

He can't help arching into the contact, craving it… but needing so much more. Fuck. Fuck, the man is going to drive him out of his mind.

As a reward, Bass shoves his finger back into Miles' ass. All the way inside. His knuckles bump up against his ass when he stops, and he can't breathe for how good that feels too.

He leans forward, and it's clear why he hasn't been using his other hand. Because he has his field knife in it. He holds it – business end – pressed against Miles' throat.

"Yes, Miles. Yes, I am. So stay still or you'll cut your throat," he warns him. He probably doesn't have to, but god damn does he want to.

And that… fuck, but for a second it whites out the world the same way _coming_ does, and Miles can't breathe. He struggles for focus, not daring to move an inch.

"…Bass…" he whispers, and there's a definite edge of fear there now – along with a hint of a plea. "Fuck… what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to love you like only we could love one another," Bass replies, his voice… slightly distant. Dreamy. "I'm going to love you with blood and death and fear. And you're going to be so utterly mine. And you're going to love it."

Then he leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, the gentle action completely at odds with everything else. His voice is soft and tender. "And when we're all done, you will love me back just the same way." He nuzzles at Miles' cheek affectionately, but the knife is still there and his finger is still there.

Miles stares back at him. Nods, caught by his words, by his tone. Suddenly unable, again, to get out even a word of his own. He feels… like he's hovering on the edge of something deep and dark and terrifying and amazing… something that makes his heart pound so hard, he wonders if Bass can hear it.

He wonders other things too. Things like, how long the other man has been thinking about this. How long he's been… plotting it. Just how far he's planning to go and what it will really feel like when Miles finds out.

To say he's not a little afraid would be the absolute epitome of macho bullshit. Because he is. Perhaps even more than a little. Letting your lover pin you down and fuck your brains out is one thing. Letting him handcuff you to a bed and put a knife to your throat… that's something else.

Bass pulls the finger out, for now. Because he needs his hands for this. Which is why Miles is chained to hi– to the bed – in the first place. Not that he objects to the way that opens the man's chest up. How it makes the muscles in his shoulders stand to attention. Like other parts of him.

Bass pulls the knife back just long enough to climb onto the bed, and sit high up on his lover's thighs. "Trust me, Miles," he says, soothingly, and when Miles isn't looking he flips the knife so it's the safe side. He knows Miles won't be able to tell easily. And he doesn't actually want to nick an artery. Really.

So, with the illusion firmly in place, he makes sure Miles' eyes are on him, and he strokes a gentle line down from behind an ear down past the cords of his neck and to his shoulder. He presses a bit harder there, flicks slightly with the wrist to scrape the top layer of skin. Not sure how his hand doesn't shake, but it doesn't.

"Trust me." And it goes lower and draws lazy circles around and around his nipple, before Bass bends down to kiss it softly in counterpoint, as his hand goes to scrape the other with the knife at the same time.

Miles' eyes roll up into his head and he can't help arching under that, even though he's fighting rather hard to stay still. "I do…" he whispers, filled with rapture. "I trust you."

Saying it makes it a little easier to believe himself; makes it easier to relax a little, to just let the sensations wash over him. Because… it feels fucking amazing. Dangerous and wonderful all at once, and every time that knife moves he feels more _alive_.

"…Please…" he whispers, realising that he's speaking without thinking – but not fast enough to stop himself from adding, " _Harder_."

Which gratifies Bass no end. And he doesn't mind Miles asking. Not when he's asking for more. He presses the blunter side of the knife hard into the man's nipple, and with his mouth he bites down as hard as he can on the other, and then sucks until his cheeks hollow.

Fuck but this is doing insane things to his cock. He's not sure how he's not already in him. But he knows this is better – a million, million miles better – and he pulls back from his chest to gaze all punch-drunk-furious-lust at him. With the knife, he finds Miles' left shoulder under his right hand. And without looking down, he scrapes a firm, pink M into the flesh.

"Anything," he promises. "Anything."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eyes still on Miles', Bass leans down and licks the mark. He feels fucking obscene. And he knows it's never, ever going to be the same again. Miles keeps having that effect on him. He wonders if they will ever hit the end, or if they will spiral down to insane, gorgeous madness forever.

Miles can't keep silent at that, his breath catching and then dissolving into a cry of shock, eyes pressed shut for a moment. When he re-opens them… how it's possible to look even _more_ out of his mind, it's hard to say. But he does.

"… _Harder_!" he cries again, the self-aware part of his mind wondering where this is coming from, and the rest – the significant majority – not caring one bit.

Bass cocks his head to one side. More? He's already bordering the limit of what he thought would be good. But Miles does have that effect on him. Pushing him well over the comfortable limits of his life.

He reaches down and trails fingers over his cock. Takes him in hand. Scrapes again. Harder. There's going to be no mistaking that mark in the morning.

Bass can't wait to see it. It looks fucking good now. But it's missing something. With a steady hand, he traces a semi-circle from one end of the M around to the other, making the symbol they had as kids. The one he has tattooed to his arm. Monroe and Matheson. They should have known it would end like this.

He can't breathe again for how it makes him feel. His thumb glides over the soft skin of Miles' cock, resting just under the head, worrying over that little hot spot he knows will make the other man's toes curl.

"…More?" he asks. He has to ask. Because he wants Miles to want this. Whatever it is.

And that's just… perfect. Miles cries out again, but this time there's a lot less pain in his tone, and a lot more pleasure. It's like he's sinking; sinking deep into some strange mental place, a place he's touched the edges of several times before but never fully fallen into. But he's falling now; fast and hard, and he's no longer aware enough to know what that means… just that it's so very fucking good.

Perfect. Marked. _His_.

The question comes, and he's nodding before he's even had a chance to think about it. Maybe he can't even think. His entire grasp on coherence is collapsing in on itself, to be replaced by something far more raw and primal; something that surges with want and need and emotion but doesn't trouble itself with complicated things like words.

Just this. Just the look in his eyes that says _yes_. Fuck, yes.

Bass shifts his weight so he's sure he's pinning Miles down. He gives a few long, lazy, generous strokes to his cock, wanting to make sure he's relaxed. Or if not relaxed, at least pleased.

He stares at Miles for a long, long moment. Wanting to know… and he reads everything. Everything. Then he nods.

And he cuts.

He's careful. Very, very careful. He's cut people before, but never like this. Quick stabbing gestures. Slices. Never with this slow, deliberate, erotic intent. And it's so weird. So weird how the flesh resists until a certain point and then it just sighs and gives in and behind is the slow rush of blood into the gap. He's watching, mesmerised. Four short, sharp lines. Shallow. He doesn't want to injure or incapacitate. Just… just wants it to sting. Wants it to… mark. And it will. He can't stop staring.

"Miles…"

The blood won't stop, and it threatens to slide down onto the bedding below. Bass presses his palm into the wound on Miles' shoulder, trying to staunch the flow. Everything is so loud. So loud and so quiet that his ragged breathing is like an interstate. Jesus.

Bass tries to find Miles' eyes, wanting… wanting to see his reaction. Hoping to fuck he hasn't gone too far. Too late if he has, he thinks. Much too late.

"…Bass..!"

It's the only sound Miles can get out. He can't even scream; his breath catching on the first attempt and flat-out refusing to work after that. He stares up at Bass with wild, terrified, ecstatic eyes, unable to look away.

This is… so far outside anything he ever expected to experience – even when they started fucking – that his mind can't quite process it. He just keeps staring, as though looking away would be the end of the world and he needs that connection to live.

The pain is overwhelming, but somehow he's riding on top of it, coasting a massive wave that will drown him if he falls under it. And then… there's the pleasure. The feelings that are more intense than even that wonderful hand on his cock. The feelings that envelop him, dragging him closer to the edge than he ever thought was possible without physical stimulation, making him need so badly that he can't breathe all over again.

"I love you," Bass says, because he's not sure what else he can say. He means it, and a million things beside it. "I love you, Miles. I love you."

He uses the knife to cut out a broad swath of fabric from the bedsheet, which is not easy with one hand. He sort of mourns ruining it, but that's only temporary. He spits on the fabric, then presses it onto the wound. It has to hurt, but he knows the saliva is good for him, knows it's the best he can do without leaving Miles' side. Which he isn't going to do any time soon.

The knife goes down onto the table. Bass just keeps staring at him, feeling his heart pound in his chest. Then he gets the gun. He holds it in front of Miles' eyes. Staring, all the while. He cocks it. Removes the safety.

Presses it to Miles' lower lip.

Miles closes his eyes. Not because he thinks – for one second – that Bass is going to kill him, but simply because, if he did, he'd die happy. Euphoric, really. He certainly isn't thinking clearly if the thought of death isn't even…

…OK that's really fucked up. And he'd be thinking as much if he were capable of doing so.

He opens his eyes again. Stares up at Bass. His Bass. His heart is thundering; thundering with terror and need, and yet… he's never felt so at peace.

"Open up," Bass says softly. "And bite." He waits for Miles to comply, then pushes the first two inches of the barrel inside his mouth.

The gun isn't loaded. Bass made sure of that before he came back in. If Miles held the gun he would know, but again it's all part of the illusion. And it's clear Bass has thought about this far more than he should have.

That done, Bass opens the lube with one hand. He dribbles some onto Miles' cock, and then some onto his own. He moves, kneeling between Miles' legs, so he can hold both together again, stroking them in one hand. It's not easy, but god does it feel good. His breath is more ragged, and his eyes are still on Miles'.

And when he's ready, he pushes one of Miles' legs over his shoulder, lines himself up with his free hand, and pushes slow, slow, slowly in.

"Mine," he growls.

Miles doesn't even dare _nod_ now, but the man can still say a lot with just his eyes. Things like 'fuck yes' and 'please' and 'more' and most definitely 'yours.'

And… here he is. Handcuffed to a bed, gun in his mouth, cock in his ass, and coated in a not insignificant amount of his own blood. And it's the most insanely wonderful thing he's ever done. His whole body surges with need, opening and surrendering under the other man, wanting to give him everything he asks for. Wanting to accept all he has to give.

He'd speak now, if he could. Promise him the world. Promise him anything. Anything to keep that wild, dark, devious beauty in Bass' eyes forever and ever.

Bass finds he likes that weird, twisted angle. So he slides out and in again. And his eyes go unfocussed. He shifts his weight, and drops so he's resting on his gun-arm elbow. The better to grab Miles' hip, so he can fuck him harder. Which he does.

But the angle isn't quite right, and it isn't quite enough. So he pulls out. Removes the gun. Grabs Miles bodily and flips him over, meaning the cuff chain twists and makes it even more uncomfortable on Miles' wrists. He shoves him up on his knees, and the gun presses to the base of his spine at the same time as he thrusts into Miles' all-too-willing ass.

"Still want your brother in arms?" Bass asks, a little… cruel note in his voice. "Still want the fighting and the blood and the death and the love?"

They kissed the first time by a tank. They fucked the first time Miles shot someone outside of war. And now they do this after a raid on a bandit camp. It's a pretty clear pattern, and only the barn makes a lie of it.

"…Always!" Miles chokes out, voice – and soul – utterly wrecked. "More than anything. More than _everything_."

And he feels it again, that need. That blood-thundering desire to sweep across the whole world with power and strength and – fuck – fear, but only so once he's done he can gather everything up and hand it all to Bass. He doesn't know where it comes from – and right now he's far too out of it to care – but he does know that it's becoming a more frequent feeling. And it's getting stronger… and more enticing.

"Please," he gasps. "Take me. Here, now, yours, hard, anything, _please_."

Bass pulls the trigger. The gun clicks, and that's it.

He drops it onto the bed. He grabs Miles' shoulder – the hurt one – and slams the man back onto his dick. Hard. As hard as he can. Over and over and over. The pressure is building behind his eyes, making it hard to focus.

"Yes," he growls again. And he moves the hand from his waist to his cock, jerking him off just as violently as he fucks him. Words are too complicated now. The emotions, the thoughts refuse to be voiced. So he has to do it with his body only, and his body is all too willing to sing.

The click of the empty chamber nearly breaks Miles all over again. Later on when he's more coherent, he'll realise that of course Bass wouldn't take a loaded gun to him – but right now, all he's aware of is the fleeting second of terror mixed with the heady euphoria of feeling so very alive.

And then Bass is fucking him brutally hard, and all he can do is take it, crying out over and over in need and ecstasy, all sense of dignity or decorum long since forgotten. He's being dragged closer and closer to the edge – but it's a deeper edge; like he's already underwater but about to fall right off the continental shelf and into the ceaseless dark.

"Please," he gasps again. "Let me come. Please." Because he doesn't dare. Not without knowing he can.

"Scream my name," Bass commands him, voice full of dark, dark purpose. Any patina of civilisation long since eroded. He's just pure, raw, brutal want and control. "And you can come."

He digs his fingernails into Miles' cock, scrapes down to his balls, and scratches them too.

Miles is going to be sore tomorrow.

" _BASS_!" Miles screams, partly from the order and partly from the overwhelming stimulation. "FUCK YES… YES."

And all at once he's coming so hard it makes him scream all over again, low and anguished and utterly blissed-out at the same time. He can't move much in this position, but that doesn't stop him from jerking backwards, impaling himself as deep as he can go as the pleasure rips through him like a tidal wave, making every nerve ending sing – and make itself known. Because suddenly there's a _lot_ of them.

"FUCK!" he shouts again. "YOURS."

It's a supreme effort of will that means Bass holds out through the start of Miles' climax, but he's only human and as Miles ruts himself on his cock, spasming, clenching, spurting hot all over his hand… he can't deny himself any more. He presses into the barely-covered wound, opening it all over again, biting down on the back of Miles' shoulder and screaming out his own pleasure into the other man's flesh.

And then he's driving them both down into the bed – thankful of a sudden, having taken so much advantage of it that it barely registered as there – jolting Miles' arms a little, but not caring enough not to. Instead he wraps around him like a heavy, warm, sated blanket, breathing brokenly into his ear.

"Got you."

His own climax over, Miles collapses down against the bed, utterly spent and totally broken, unable to think or speak. He's just aware of the most overwhelming sense of completion and _right_ , along with a soul-deep need for Bass to stay close. To stay right here. To not leave him, not break contact, even for one second… because if he did, right now it feels as if the world would end.

Miles fights for a word. Any word. Any word that sums up how he feels. Any word that he can actually get out.

"…yours…" he manages, but he can only say it once, such is the effort required to drag his mind back up from the depths into which it has fallen.

But that doesn't stop him meaning it. Oh no. He means it perhaps more than anything he's ever said in his entire life.

Even through his exhausted contentment, Bass knows when he has to respond. He noses softly behind Miles' ear, almost purring with his happiness. His whole body feels utterly relaxed. Everything but his heart, which feels like every breath Miles takes wrings it for any drop of feeling it can.

"Yes," he whispers. "Mine. Perfect. Fucked up. Mine." A gentle nip at his earlobe. "I hurt you," he says, wonderingly. Snuggles him tighter.

Miles just nods, relaxing more and more, liking the words. Even if they're short and simple. They're good. And they sum this up just right.

He's vaguely aware of pain, on the edge of his mind. Pain in his shoulder. Pain in his wrists. He's not nearly together enough to respond to either, though. He just… feels them. Feels them, mixing with the bliss and happiness and total exhaustion.

They just took down a bandit camp. Saved a town. Had utterly fucked-up, mind-blowing sex. Who needs electricity?

"Going to uncuff you," Bass says. While he still can. He rocks them both to the side enough that he can reach the keys, and after a moment of fumbling he gets the cuffs open. He tosses them onto the bedside cabinet, and grabs at Miles' wrists. One in each hand, he rolls them slightly so they're both on one hip and he's not crushing the man with his weight… too much. He still leans heavily into him, knowing Miles likes that feeling. The feeling of being held. Kept. He rubs his thumbs over the lines on his wrists.

"Is going to leave a mark," he adds. He sounds… pleased about that. Proud. But also humbled. He's feeling warmly affectionate now, the darkness having all seeped out for the moment. Gentle kisses to his neck, his ear. "Our mark."

Miles just lets Bass uncuff him, and roll him, relaxing even more in the other man's arms once he can. "Yes," he whispers. "You and me. Always."

He's shaking a little now, though he doesn't know why, because he isn't cold. "Just… stay close?" he asks, suddenly a little desperate. "Need to feel you there."

"Not going anywhere. Any time. Ever." Bass is very clear on this. He doesn't care about a single other thing in the world except Miles. Probably he never did.

He hugs him tighter to make the point, twinging at how that feels to his exhausted cock. He wraps Miles' own arms around himself, holding on to them still. "Going to hold you til morning. Need to sleep soon." Conversation is not his strong point when this exhausted. "Love you."

"Love you too. Just don't go. Ever."

Overwhelming exhaustion overtakes, and Miles feels the blackness seep in, just long enough to process it before he slips under, letting sleep claim him.

Bass holds out just long enough to feel Miles go, and then he lets himself follow.

***

When Miles finally comes to the next morning, he's aware of three things, in a very distinctive order.

The first is Bass. Warm, wonderful Bass, still pressed up behind him, wrapping around him, legs tangled in his. He can feel the other man's breath against the back of his neck, slow and regular and… calm.

The second is a low, dull ache, which seems to spread through his whole body – and flares all the more when he becomes aware of it. It fills him up completely, strongest in his wrists, his ass… and, oh fuck, his shoulder…

The third… is the bed. They're in _bed_. And it's still a wonderful, decadent novelty.

For a few moments, he just lies where he is, letting the sensation and awareness roll through him, revelling in the feeling and the… memories. He doesn't want to move. He's too comfortable… and plus, it's going to hurt more.

Bass feels Miles stirring, but he's still enjoying sleep a little too much to wake up. He pulls him in a little tighter – rubbing against his ass – and murmurs something that might be 'morning', but might also be 'rhubarb'. His tongue hasn't quite woken yet, even if his cock is trying to. He presses a very lazy kiss to Miles' shoulder, and snuggles tighter still.

"Hey," Miles says, sleepily but rather more coherently. "You alive back there?"

He grasps Bass' hand, thumb stroking over his knuckles.

"Sleep," Bass insists, but he nods. The kiss is followed by another. And another. Slow, lazy Sunday morning kisses. "Morning."

Maybe it's because he can tell he's in a bedroom and not in any immediate danger that's making it hard to come around. Or maybe he just wants Miles to want it.

"Stay," he says, and moans at the stroking over his hand. It feels good and comforting and… good.

"We should really get up…" Miles points out, though he can see the logic behind not moving at all. "I have no idea what time it is… I feel like I slept forever…"

Which isn't really a surprise, given… yes.

Bass grumbles, and grabs Miles around the waist. And then rolls onto his back so Miles is lying flat out on top of him. "Really want to get up?" he asks, blinking slowly. A long, long yawn and a stretch. And a wriggle of his hips. To punctuate his point, as if he needed to.

"Bed," Bass adds. "Bed!"

OK, that's… interesting.

"…Bass Monroe, you are _insatiable_ ," Miles says, sounding entirely happy about it. "And much as I enjoy indulging you… someone will probably come looking for us sooner or later. That's assuming the whole town hasn't cleared out in response to the sounds you had me making last night…"

Yes. Good thing they weren't in the tents for that. If nothing else, Jeremy might never have spoken to them again.

No fair. Bass pouts, and his hand wanders lower to Miles' groin. To see if the man is equally interested. "Quickie?" he asks. "We could use our mouths. That would keep us quiet. Quieter than normal."

He doesn't want to be dissuaded, because if he is, he'll have to go meet the morning – and Jeremy and probably that earnest-looking boy scout – with a limp in his step and unable to think.

With more energy than should be possible for a man doing what he was doing last night, Miles rolls right off Bass, then turns so he's back on top of him but face to face. "Deviant," he says, far too warmly.

And then promptly disappears under the covers, fully intent on causing some noise.

***

A short while later, the… situation… taken care of, Miles finally persuades Bass that getting up really would be sensible. If nothing else, Ollie mentioned something about food the night before, and Miles is hopeful he can locate some of it. All this physical activity will give a man an appetite.

They pull on trousers but little else, not expecting company – and by the time they get to the bottom of the stairs, and realise they're not alone, it's too late to go back.

"Hey," Bass says, a little weakly. Jeremy's seen them like this before but the new kid hasn't. At least the kid hadn't been right next… oh crap. How long have they been down here? He knows they hit the headboard against the wall a few times and there was probably a few 'fuck', 'god', 'yes' and names in there too, quiet as they tried to be.

A little pink – but not as pink as he should be – Bass finds a chair at the dining room table and sits. "Wow… breakfast?" That's enough to distract him from the momentary embarrassment.

Jeremy is used to it. But he does try to lean over and cover Ollie's eyes. "Uh, guys. Shirts maybe? No shirt, no service?" Because he's clocked on to the matted bandage barely clinging to Miles' shoulder.

Ollie bats at Jeremy's hands, trying to get him to desist, though says nothing. He looks… surprised. But not just surprised.

"…Fuck," is all Miles says, and he's back out the door without another word. He returns after a moment, tossing a shirt to Bass and pulling on one of his own, and actually has the decency to look a little guilty. But only a little.

Trying not to let on that moving hurts – which it does, especially if you've just run up and down stairs without thinking about it sensibly first – Miles settles in a chair beside Bass. He wonders if he ought to apologise, but instead he says, "…You made us breakfast?"

Bass rolls his eyes at the prudishness, but he does put on the shirt. If slowly. He may be a bit of a bastard.

"Yes!" Jeremy says, now happy with the two of them dressed and he can go back to the food he's preparing. "Bacon, something close to pancakes, and coffee. I'm afraid I couldn't do grits and sausages and tomatoes and all, but I've done the best I can."

He dishes up four plates, and nods at Ollie to ask him to pour the coffee out. "To celebrate us not dying horribly last night."

Bass grabs Miles' knee under the table, then his hands are on top of it pretending he did no such thing.

Miles manages not to react too much, but it isn't easy when every inch of him is hyper-sensitive and practically _singing_ with bliss.

"Knew we kept you around for a reason," he says, but there's a lot of warmth to his tone. It's hard not to like someone when they've snuck into your house and made you breakfast… Well, OK, perhaps it's a little weird. But maybe not so much for them.

And then there's food, and it's not rabbit, and fuck but it's good.

Jeremy sits facing Miles, and kicks him gently under the table. "Well if you save more people, I will make you more cooked breakfasts. Sound like a deal?"

"Deal," Miles says, with a little grin. And then he turns his attention back to Ollie. "How are the townspeople holding up?" he asks.

"Surprisingly well," Ollie replies. "They're putting together a group to go back for… for the bodies of the ones who didn't make it. You should go with them. If nothing else… there might be resources you could use."

"Sounds like a good plan," Bass admits, and then realises he's talking with his mouth half full and that's rude when you're sitting at a table. He swallows. "Should do something about the bodies, too. I mean, not your friends."

"We'll get a few of the townspeople to come with us," Miles says. "They can bring the bodies of their own people back, and then we'll go through the camp, remove anything of use, then torch the place. That way it won't pose a health risk – and it won't be useable by anyone else."

"You can take what you like from there," Ollie says. "You saved everyone. It's only right."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but isn't sure how.

"That's nice," Bass says. "We won't be able to carry all that much, but it would certainly be helpful to take a few extras."

"They might have some useful stuff," Ollie goes on. "They've been raiding quite a few settlements in the area."

A silence. He still can't say whatever it is.

"What will you do now?" he asks, instead.

"Stay here for another day or so, if you'll let us," Miles answers. "Then… we hit the road again. We're heading to Chicago."

"Chicago?" Ollie repeats, looking surprised. "Why?"

"To find my brother. He lives there, with his wife and two young kids."

"And I'm going with him," Bass says, because… it's Miles' Big Adventure. Miles' Family. And Bass… Bass is just tagging along. And it kind of hurts to have someone know this.

"And I'm with them while I learn how to fend for myself," Jeremy adds. "I don't know how long, I might even go to Chicago too. I don't really have anywhere else to be."

Ollie nods. "I see. That… that sounds like a good reason."

Still can't say it.

Miles, meanwhile, grips Bass' knee under the table – not in a flirty way, but in a wouldn't-go-without-you way, having picked up on his tone. "It's taking us longer than expected," he says, to cover the moment. "But we'll get there eventually."

"Yeah, we hadn't planned for snow. Or getting lost. Or finding marauding, murdering psychopaths on the way," Bass says, grateful of the little silent show of support. It makes his heart clench in a weird way. "So we just… keep going. Little by little."

"And me," Jeremy adds. "I know I slowed you guys down plenty." He sounds a little rueful. "But when we get to Chicago we'll throw the biggest damn party you've ever seen."

The food is finished, and Bass forlornly pushes his plate forwards. Breakfast. Bed. Bath. All wonderful things. And now… bandits. A bit less wonderful, unless the camp throws up some cool shit. Which it might well do.

"Is everyone ready to go back to the camp?" he asks.

"Definitely," Miles agrees. "We should get moving." He looks over at Ollie, tilting his head towards the door. "You coming along, kid?"

"Yes," Ollie replies, getting up – and strapping on his sword belt, which he'd left on one of the worktops whilst they ate. "Lead the way."

They don't need to take everything with them, as they're coming back, but the three men all make sure to collect a weapon or two (and in Miles and Bass' case, finish dressing properly) before they head out.

It's a pleasant morning outside, and there's a lot more people around – the events of last night obviously having made them more confident and relaxed. In the main square, a group of six are waiting with a cart, so they can bring back the bodies – Ollie having told them to wait until he'd found out what their unexpected warlords planned to do. Together, they all set out, following the route over the fields towards the camp.

It's a much easier trip now, in the daylight and with no need for stealth. And before long… there it is, up ahead, standing silent against the edge of the forest. Miles… pauses, and looks at Ollie.

"This is not going to be pleasant, kid," he points out.

Ollie takes a deep breath. "I know," he replies. "But I'm still coming with you."

"No shame if you need to hurl," Bass says. To both him and Jeremy. "At least it isn't too hot yet."

He was trying to be nice.

"What's the… plan?" Jeremy asks, looking a little green.

Miles waves the six townsmen over, wanting them to hear this too. "You six, locate the bodies of your own people. Once you've got everyone, head straight back to Allentown. The rest of us… we'll look through the camp. See if you can find anything useful, or…"

He shouldn't say it. Should just get what they can, and get gone. But…

"…or any indication of who these guys were. Whether they were just a random band or part of something more… organised."

Because he can't fight the possibility. And something about how these guys had a properly constructed outpost… is ringing alarm bells. Big ones.

Bass waits until people have moved enough to walk closer to Miles, close enough that he can speak lowly so no one else can hear.

"You got that too, huh?" he asks. He'd hoped it was just his suspicious nature. But it hadn't sat right with him. The sentries, the walls, the… feeling when they stormed the place.

"Yeah, I got that," Miles answers, equally softly. "I didn't want to say anything last night, but… it feels wrong. These guys may have looked like random thugs at first… but I'm not convinced. Random thugs don't have _bases_."

It isn't a good thought.

"Look, the horses!" Jeremy says, sounding excited. "They're still here!"

Ollie, meanwhile, has spotted the horses too – still secured within a large paddock, inside the walls of the camp – and runs over, looking… oddly delighted. He goes straight up to one of them, a painted palomino, sliding a hand around its neck and rubbing its nose, completely at ease.

"You okay if we go fetch the horses back to town?" Jeremy asks Miles and Bass for permission. Horses are good. He doesn't really know much about them, but he knows they are good. And they seem to make Ollie happy.

Bass nods. "Sure. Be careful with them, maybe hitch them to the little carts to… uh. Help take people back." He nods to where the townsfolk have gathered the corpses, and covered them with blankets.

"Sir, yes, Sir!" Jeremy throws a sloppy – and naval – salute.

Ollie, unsurprisingly, goes to help Jeremy with the horses with something of a spring in his step, leaving Miles and Bass alone again.

Bass shakes his head. "We need to teach Jeremy how to do that properly if he keeps insisting." Then he casts his eyes around. "I think we should search for what looks like their HQ. The folks here wouldn't know evidence if it hit them, and they probably kept their ammo central too."

"Tell me about it," Miles agrees, with a wry little grin. "Lieutenant Hanson would have had us doing push-ups in the mud all night if we'd ever been that sloppy."

Then he nods in the direction of one of the few buildings within the walls of the base; a crude, wooden hut. "Looks like a good place to start," he says, and leads the way over.

The door is unbarred, so Miles yanks it open, revealing the room beyond. There's several crates of supplies against the back wall – and, just as Bass predicted, some of them look to contain ammo. Demanding rather more immediate attention, however, is a large table which dominates the room. It's spread with a map much like Ollie's, but with different markings, and a number of tiny red flags.

"Oh, fuck," Miles says, moving closer to it. "This is what I was afraid of."

Bass moves to stand right-ways of the map, so he can study it better. "What I wouldn't give for a goddamn camera," he says.

Then he's rifling through drawers, trying to find a pen and paper to take it down. "This is bad, Miles. From here to Philly and it looks like it's going over towards Chicago… whatever it is."

He finds some paper, turns it over and sees some brief, not entirely sensible instructions or notes. A code or cipher. He chews his lip, worried. Then he turns the paper over and starts committing the map in a condensed fashion.

"You know a place or a person called Franklin?" Bass asks.

"…Franklin?" Miles repeats, pausing in the middle of a heap of papers he's flicking through. "Plenty of towns but no people. Apart from the kite guy."

He pauses, spotting the name on what looks like a manifest of some kind. "Fuck, here it is again," he says, holding out the sheet, which has been signed at the bottom in a clear, blocky script. "You reckon this guy is overseeing more than one of these gangs?"

"By the map I'd guess so. Looks to be… this seems to be one of the smaller bases," Bass points to the original map with its squiggles. "And there's a good half dozen like this, and some plenty bigger."

Bass whistles out through his teeth. "I don't think we're in Kansas any more, Dorothy."

He starts collecting all the pieces of paper with the weird code on, and stuffing them along with the ammo into his mostly empty kit bag. "We're going to need to work out what these messages say. I don't think we should run into these guys by accident. Ever." He chews the inside of his mouth a bit. "We got lucky this time. Really lucky, Miles."

"I'd say you're right," Miles agrees, staring down at the map with a worried expression. "If there's more of them… whoever this guy is, he's got influence across at least three states. Fuck. I knew this would happen sooner or later. The system can't abide anarchy… so something – or someone – has to fill the void."

And it's never someone good.

"We need to avoid this guy and his people," Miles goes on. "Skirt around the areas where they seem to have most influence. Although…"

And it's right there in Miles' eyes; that look, that undeniable awareness. _We could help_.

But he can't. He knows he can't. They have to get to Ben. They have to get to Ben, especially if there's a maniac running bandit gangs across the state. And they aren't even in Illinois yet.

He tries to ignore the lingering need to do something more, starting to stock his own bag with as much of the useable ammo as he can. Doubly important to be well-armed, now.

"Miles," Bass says, and it's gentle. A tone only he – and maybe Jeremy – get to hear. "You do realise it would be suicide to try anything against anyone so organised? I know you know that."

But there's something in his voice, too.

"We should get to Ben and Rachel first. And then we can see about… other things. But one thing's for certain, we need that town to evacuate. If these people are sending orders back and forth, they'll notice the problem and they'll raze the town to the ground in retaliation. They don't stand a chance."

In a drawer, Bass finds a bottle of single malt. When he's sure Miles isn't looking, he sneaks it into the man's pack. Let him find that later. He puts some more papers in to cover it.

Just because they're being cautious about this little problem doesn't mean they can't later have a little fun.

"You're right," Miles answers, and he knows it's true. It's just… difficult to walk away. "We have to get to Chicago. After that… after that we can re-consider."

He pauses. Looks at the map once more. Takes a deep breath. "Come on. We should check the other few buildings, and then see how Jeremy and Ollie are getting on with those horses."

Focus. Focus is good. Focus stops him from thinking about other things. About other towns at the mercy of heartless killers. About where Ben might be, and how safe he is…

Focus.

***

It takes them most of the afternoon to finish looting, and they take every scrap of useable material, food, or supplies they can. The horses prove to be a godsend in that regard. When the last load goes back to the small village, the sky is starting to turn those lovely shades before the dark comes.

The fire takes a while to take hold. Even with the brushwood laid down between the buildings, it isn't easy to torch the little encampment. But the bodies of the slain bandits are piled together close to the start of the blaze to make sure they burn.

Mercifully, the wind is blowing the other way, so the sombre walk back to town isn't accompanied with the stench of charred flesh.

The people of the village have decided to hold their own joint funeral for their dead neighbours, and Bass, Miles and Jeremy decide not to interfere. For one they didn't know them, and for two they feel a little responsible.

So whilst prayers and goodbyes are said, they sit around the living room table of the house Bass and Miles have appropriated, trying not to think about what's going on outside.

"We've got plenty of herbs and spices. Which is great. I can do a lot more with herbs than you'd think," Jeremy says, trying for some levity.

"Herbs are great. But I'm liking the ammo," Bass points out. "We might need it, if we meet more of this Franklin's goons."

"I'll second that," Miles agrees, laying his kit bag down on the floor before he settles in a chair and… OK, what was that chinking? Like glass? He starts digging about inside the bag, and in amongst the papers, ammo, and other useful items he's collected he finds…

"…Scotch?!" He looks straight at Bass. "Did you loot me _Scotch_ and not say so?"

For the first time since they set out that morning, his eyes are alight with happiness.

Bass actually looks sheepish. It's not often he does. His ears go a little pink with pride. "Yeah. I figured you'd need some cheering up and I thought you'd find it when you needed it," he says.

Jeremy whistles low. "Bass, man, you totally came through. It's even good Scotch."

Bass shrugs. "Shall I find us some glasses?"

"Fuck, yes," Miles replies. Because that would probably be better than just passing the bottle around. Really.

He waits for Bass to come back with the glasses, then uncorks the bottle with a somewhat reverent flourish, pouring them each a good-sized shot. That done, he lifts his own glass.

"To Allentown."

"And to us," Bass proposes.

"And to whisky," Jeremy insists.

They clink glasses, and down the shot.

Bass sighs in pleasure. "I don't remember the last time we had a drink. I mean, a real one. Out of real glasses." He glances sideways at Miles. "Although we didn't always act so posh, either."

Miles bats at him, then reaches for the bottle to pour them each another shot. "This is not posh. This is just… treating good whisky with the respect it deserves. Fuck knows when we'll get any more, so this… I want to savour this."

And it makes the weight of the day melt back at last, makes all his thoughts of bandits and danger and the mysterious Franklin all take second place to something far more welcome.

Good whisky. And good company.

Down goes the second shot.

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Bass says, though he doesn't sound aggrieved. He's enjoying the liquor too. He's slower with the second one, letting it roll around in his mouth, and trickle down his gullet. He makes a throaty noise of pleasure at that. Eyes closed. Etching the feeling deep inside.

"You keep making that noise, I'll be asking for my third in a cup to go," Jeremy jokes.

Bass looks slit-eyed at him. One brow quirked. "You like listening, Jeremy. Don't deny it." He takes another slug, and makes an even more perverted noise. His eyes are daring.

Miles bats at him again, a little more forcefully this time. "By this point, I imagine half the state likes listening," he says, the alcohol making him rather less diplomatic.

"Well," Jeremy says, going pink and reaching for his collar. "It's not like you give anyone an opportunity not to. You sound like fucking cats in heat."

Bass snorts. "Please, Jeremy. At the very least I'm a wolf."

Jeremy shakes his head, and pours himself another. "Nope. Definitely a cat. Maybe more a cougar than a tabby."

"We did _try_ to be quiet," Miles points out – not to be reasonable, but purely for the devilment – as he pours himself another glass too. He looks over at Bass, a very wicked expression on his face. "And that lasted… what, about ten seconds? Fifteen?"

And down goes glass number three. Fuck, but it's good.

"I did offer to let you gag me but you declined," Bass says, waving his glass at Miles. Then he looks at Jeremy.

"We still haven't found you a boyfriend for you to have very noisy sex with. You're going to have to tell us your type. I mean, if you have one more than 'male'. So we can look for one."

Jeremy appears to consider this for a moment. "I am somewhat partial to Matt Bomer," he says. "Although… as it's the end of the world, anyone reasonably attractive, single, not a psychopath and not too short would do."

"Not a psychopath?" Miles echoes, with a grin. "Limiting your options a little there, aren't you?"

He deigns not to reply to the rest. The truth is, he _likes_ the noises rather too much.

"Maybe a sociopath would be okay?" Bass asks. The whisky is really good. He wants more. He enjoys making the noise again after he drinks it, and wonders why no one else is.

"I don't want to be horribly murdered in my sleep, even if I just had amazing sex that was louder than yours," Jeremy says, hand on his heart. "I would rather jerk off every night on my own than date a black widow."

Bass nearly chokes on his drink. "Okay. We'll get you a doll. Or a sock. Or something."

"Depends on how amazing the sex was…" Miles starts out, then stops himself, downs what remains of his current glass, and pours another. Fuck but it burns so wonderfully.

And thankfully the universe saves him from digging an even deeper hole because, at that moment, there's a heavy knock on the door and Ollie comes walking in. "Hey, I need to a- …Oh. Am I interrupting?"

"Probably for the best, kid," Miles replies. He waves the bottle at him. "You drink Scotch?"

"I'm nineteen," Ollie points out, flatly.

"Well, time to learn," Miles says, brightly. "Brave new world and all."

"I drank younger than you and I'm fine," Bass tells him. But he's struggling to focus because of Miles' comment.

Thankfully Jeremy decides to ignore it too. For now. His eyes do linger on Miles' shoulder – his other shoulder – where he knows there's now something else marking the man's hide.

"You have to make a porn noise when you swallow it," Jeremy tells him. "Bass can show you."

Bass rolls his eyes, but he does it. Jeremy looks delighted. "See!"

"…I've changed my mind," Ollie says, rolling his eyes. "I'm getting a glass. Give me the freaking drink before I lose the will to live."

He disappears back into the kitchen for a moment, returning with another glass and holding it out. Miles pours him a shot, and he settles in one of the other chairs, staring at the glass in apprehension for a moment.

And then he lifts it and downs the contents all in one – and promptly collapses into rough coughing, clutching at his chest. "…Fuck," he rasps. "You people actually drink this stuff? It tastes like burnt soap and hurts all the way down."

A pause. "Give me some more."

"That's the spirit!" Miles says, brightly, pouring Ollie another glass, and then re-filling everyone else's as well.

"Well, it wasn't like we did over a convenience store," Bass says, a little hurt. "And Miles likes it."

Jeremy pats him on the leg. It's a messy gesture. "I like it too, Bass. Don't you worry." To prove it, he downs the next shot and tries his best at a sexy rumble.

Bass just starts laughing at him.

Ollie downs his second glass, obviously trying very hard to keep a straight face this time. It doesn't quite work, but he does at least manage better than after the first glass.

"…Ow. Ow. OK, that's… ow."

Miles laughs again. "Takes practice, kid. Probably too much, in our case."

"Don't breathe. Just swallow. Let it burn the way down the back of your throat and warm your belly," Bass says. He pours them all another, and demonstrates. He's well aware he's being utterly obscene. And that there isn't much left.

"And don't worry if you throw up," Jeremy says, and now pats Ollie on the leg. "Most people do the first time they get truly shitfaced."

"You say the nicest things, Jeremy."

"Thank you, Sebastian."

And now… Miles gets a strange look in his eyes. For the most part, it's just continued amusement, but beneath it, there's this little flicker, and it's rather too like the flicker only otherwise seen when he's about to shoot someone.

"Jeremy Baker, are you flirting with my boyfriend?"

Jeremy snorts out whisky through his nose. "What?" He goes utterly red-faced, and starts fidgeting. "Er. No! No. Why would you say that?" His voice is a bit too high-pitched.

Bass doesn't know whether to be amused, touched, or maybe even upset. But he can't bring himself to be upset, and he looks slyly over at Miles. He can sense the undercurrent. And the possessive, jealous tone in Miles' voice is doing things to his heart. Amongst other places.

"So… do I have to watch myself around other men?" Bass asks. He decides it's time to play footsie under the table. Then he realises with some horror he's not sure who he's playing footsie with. And he may be a bit drunk.

Which is when Ollie jumps about a foot in the air and scoots his chair back rapidly, making a rather alarming scraping noise along the floor as he does – and then trying to look like he _meant_ to do that.

Thankfully, this is mostly covered by Miles leaning in closer to Bass. "Damn straight you do," he growls, absolutely shamelessly.

"What would you do if I leaned over, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and kissed him in front of you?" Bass asks. He's looking from under his lashes in a mostly-coy way. Mostly coy, because he is also a dick, and he's calling Miles' bluff.

Although he feels marginally bad that he appeared to be tickling Ollie and not Miles.

"Don't I get a say in this? Hello? Matt Bomer fan here!" Jeremy insists. "Or the sock. The sock is fine too."

"Wait til I get you upstairs and I'll show you," Miles replies, his tone utterly deadly now.

"I… um… should we maybe be leaving soon?" Ollie says, looking at Jeremy and trying very hard to get him to take the hint without actually bolting for the door straight away. And… OK, this whisky sure is strong…

"Yeah, yeah I am feeling a bit tired," Jeremy says, not slow on the uptake. He pushes his chair back. "Thanks for the drink. It was great." He grabs Ollie's arm. "We'll go back to ours."

"Aw, sorry to see you go so soon," Bass says, very cheerily. But without taking his eyes off Miles. He knows he's being rude. He doesn't care. "See you in the morning, because we should probably set out by noon."

Otherwise known as: don't knock. We will.

Ollie and Jeremy disappear out the room at some speed.

As the outer door clicks shut, Miles is out of his chair in an instant, rounding on Bass with fire in his eyes. "Like winding me up in public, do you?" he growls, grabbing the man and yanking him to his feet, twisting an arm up behind his back before he can protest.

Bass hadn't quite expected that, but it doesn't mean he is annoyed. Taken off-guard, perhaps. He leans forwards to alleviate some of the pressure, hissing because it's uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable, and sending automatic waves of 'fight' and 'panic' and 'run' through him. The adrenaline is coursing through his system, and he starts to struggle, throwing his weight from side to side, free hand slapping at him.

"I wasn't planning on it," Bass says, a bit breathless. "But you know me, if an opportunity arises…" And he throws his weight forwards to try to pull Miles off his feet.

Miles is ready for that and yanks him backwards again, wrestling for his other hand to hold it still. "Likewise," he says, right in Bass' ear. "And I already had plans. But now… now I think I'm going to have to take it further. You've been like this all day. You _get_ like this whenever you've been… the way you were last night. And now you need putting back in your place, don't you..?"

Though there's a hint of a question there, Miles doesn't wait for an answer. He turns them both and starts pushing Bass towards the stairs, fully intent on walking him up whilst still held like this.

"Can't you say it?" Bass asks, hiding the wave of panic that Miles isn't letting him go. He fights like a wildcat to keep his hand free but it's not easy and eventually Miles wins out. Which makes his heart hammer even worse, and makes him lose the sensible, forward-planning bits of his brain. The more deep, primal ones kicking to the fore.

He tries to stop them going up the stairs. Not that he doesn't _want_ to be up there, but more that he objects to it not being his choice. And he knows Miles. Knows Miles likes having to work for it. Likes having someone fight him, tooth and nail. All the way to the bed.

"How can you assume control if you can't even admit what it is we do?" Bass asks, his voice ringing with challenge.

At the top of the stairs, Miles pushes Bass face-first into the wall, then lets go of the hand he's not fully pinning, freeing his own hand up to lace through the other man's hair and yank his head back. "You just watch me," he growls. "I'll have you crying my name before I'm even half-done."

Fuck but his blood is pounding in his ears; a vibrant, inescapable need flooding through him. It throws up a mental haze all of its own, but it's different from the other side; sharper and clearer, a rush of determination.

He drags Bass away from the wall and hauls him into the bedroom, snatching up the handcuffs from the bed (and yes, he may have left them within easy reach on purpose) and latching one around the wrist he still has hold of.

Bass cries out, because he likes the way the wall feels, and more than that the hand in his hair. It goes all the way down his spine to his groin, and it feels like Miles has grabbed his cock not just his hair. He lets out an involuntary whimper of pleasure, and hates himself for it.

"I'll be yelling 'Fuck off, Miles Matheson'," Bass insists, but he knows he's lying. Posturing. His feet kick out against the carpet ineffectually.

He howls in protest at the cuff, and he's back to fighting like mad to keep his other hand free. "NO!"

" _Yes_ ," Miles growls, pushing him against a different wall and wrestling for his other wrist, latching the cuff around it once he's finally got a firm hold, then dragging Bass into the middle of the room once more and pushing him to his knees, hands finally cuffed behind his back.

"Now that's better," he says, yanking Bass' head back again and leaning in over him. "You've wanted this all day, haven't you? Wanted to make me so mad that I'd throw everyone out and fuck you senseless."

Everything in Bass' training screams at him that being cuffed like this is a really bad thing. That he should escape, tout suite. That if he can't, he should just recite name, rank, serial number. But this isn't war, and this isn't training. It's Miles. Miles. His fucking wonderful – if evil – boyfriend. And he knows, too, that Miles is right. He does act like an ass for attention. Specifically Miles' attention.

Not that he will admit it. He tries to get back to his feet, even knowing it is doomed to failure. In fact, because it is doomed to failure.

"I admit if you put it like that it sounds like something I might do." Which is not 'fuck off, Miles Matheson' but it is also not 'fuck me, Miles Matheson'. "But I think we could talk about this like rational individuals."

Miles yanks Bass' head back a little more firmly, leaning in so close that he can feel the man's breath against his lips, making him arch so that any further attempts to get up again are even less likely to succeed.

"I don't want rational," he says, flatly. "And I don't believe you want rational, either. You're certainly not going to get it. So tell me… tell me exactly what you do want, you fucking deviant… because if you don't, you might not get it…"

He does not look like a man you want to argue with right now. Even if you have certain tendencies. Or, indeed, a deathwish.

Bass would like his hair to remain in his scalp, so with a hiss of pain, he relents into Miles' hands, his shoulders shaking from the effort to keep himself subdued. It's difficult to fight his own nature. But Miles' mouth so close to his is a welcome distraction. So much of a distraction, indeed, that he tries with all he can to close the distance for a kiss. Even if it's only fleeting.

Because fuck you, Miles, he's not ready to talk yet. And he's going to do his damndest to push Miles into doing it anyway. Right now, his sense of pride is enough to convince him he might just win the battle of patience. Or will.

"Right, then," Miles says, fury in his eyes, and he yanks Bass back to his feet and throws him down on the bed – on his back, cuffed hands pinned beneath him – then straddles him before he can move too far, pinning him down bodily.

And then – fuck, fuck, don't overthink it, you've prepared for it – he drags the knife from his belt and presses it firmly over Bass' throat.

…Definitely feels different this way around. Feels like… thunder and the open road; waves against a rocky shore. Feels… forbidden. And fucking beautiful.

"You're _mine_ ," he growls. "And that's what you need. You need to be _taken_. And I can promise this much… you _will_ beg. You _will_ come screaming my name. Because if you don't…"

He presses the knife in almost close enough to cut, his eyes black.

Lying on his back, hands pinned uncomfortably underneath him, Bass licks his lips at the faint taste of Miles. It was worth it, just for that. Also worth it to spur the man into more action without having to ask. Well, he did ask. Just not with words. He's squirming up into Miles' crotch until…

…fuck…

Bass goes utterly still at the knife. Because he's not a fucking fool. Even if Miles doesn't want him dead or even seriously injured… that's a fucking knife and he knows first hand what that can do to someone's throat. (Not something he wants to remember right now, thanks, brain.)

Bass' eyes look as black as Miles'. It shouldn't, but it sends a stabbing hot wave of lust right into his belly. Makes him want to beg for more. Makes him… want…

"Miles," Bass says, and that's all he can say. For the moment. He can't even look down at the knife. His eyes are stuck to Miles'. Like nothing else exists. He licks his lips slowly. The taste of him there still. The words… making something stir. Something dark and awful and… wonderful. A long, long pause. And Bass tilts his jaw just a little bit, offering more of his throat. He's not quite ready to surrender, but it's definitely up for negotiation now. Suddenly it doesn't seem such a bad idea. No! Yes. It does. No?

"Now," Miles says, sensing the shift in Bass' mood and leaping on it all at once, rushing to take advantage, "Answer my question. Tell me precisely what you need. What you've been imagining all day whilst you've been deliberately winding me up…"

He pushes his free hand down between them, slipping it under the waistband of Bass' fatigues, the barest hint of a promise… or perhaps a threat.

One thing is for sure… he won't take no for an answer again.

Bass freezes. Questioning. Questioning is bad. Miles should stop trying to make him talk. Can't he see he just wants to fuck? Not that he will say that.

Underneath him, his hands clench into fists. "Can't," he says. Not won't, can't.

Miles hits him. Hard. He does it with his free hand, but he moves so fast you could be forgiven for thinking it was the knife coming down, and not an open palm.

The blow catches Bass off-guard, and he's shocked into silence. When he's convinced he's not about to die just yet, he feels with his tongue for any damage. But it seems okay.

"So you can flirt _shamelessly_ with Jeremy, but not answer a simple question for me?" Miles growls. "We'll see about that…"

He pushes Bass' shirt up, forcing it up and over his head so it tangles around his bound arms. And then… he has full access to the man's chest. Perfect. Keeping the knife across his throat, he leans in, worrying a nipple with his free hand, over and over and over… and then twisting _hard_.

Bass winces at that comment. And to be fair to him, he feels… bad. About it. "Miles, I…"

But whatever he was going to say gets lost when Miles starts doing other things. Like hurting him. More. He forgets the knife and bucks up, and it's only because Miles is paying attention that he doesn't slit his own throat in the process.

"MILES! PLEASE! PLEASE JUST LISTEN TO ME?!"

"Oh, so _now_ you want to talk?" Miles growls at him, desisting for the moment but keeping the knife held close. "Go on, then. But you better make it good."

Fuck, this is doing all kinds of weird things to the inside of his head, like little flipsides to the things he was feeling yesterday. It's… strange. Strange and yet right. On a rational level he's aware of all the whats and whys and so on… and on an _ir_ rational level, he's aware of a bright, burning need which will not fade – one which threatens to consume him if left unchecked.

Bass actually makes a whimpering noise, and lowers his eyes. Ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his need to talk. And his inability to do it.

"I… can't – don'thitmepleasewait – can't… tell you what I… want. Or… thought about. Because. I didn't." He looks mortified to admit this, but it's true. "Miles, I didn't, I swear. I didn't… know what to expect or want or hope for, I just… sort of hoped. For it." He looks utterly miserable now. "I don't know what I want, Miles. I just know I want it. Know I want… you."

Part of Miles wonders if he's gone too far. The rest, however, screams at him to roll with this and carry on, and he opts to indulge this for the moment… but not indefinitely. "You have me," he points out, not unreasonably. "And I have you. All of you, Bass. _All_ of you."

He pulls the man's head back again, but this time leans in to kiss him properly, loving the contact. And then… he starts to trace the knife down from his throat, over his chest, toying at a nipple with the flat edge. Wanting to give him plenty of stimulation – and knowing how much harder it will make it to think.

"Yes," Bass says. "All of me. Please, Miles. Please don't be angry." He wonders if maybe some of the formless wants could be conjured into words. But they're just that. Formless. Shifting darkness that flits away when you look at it in the sunlight. Dark hungers without knowing what for.

But Miles kisses him, so he mustn't be too angry with him. Mustn't be too annoyed. He kisses back, but he's reserved about it. The panic of having failed him somehow by not knowing himself well enough working to cow his ego.

When the knife starts to move, his whole body starts trembling like mad. He wants more. So much more.

And the words start to come out on their own.

"Want hurt, want pain, want you to take, want you to take over, want you to make me afraid, want to make you happy, want to do good, want you angry, want you happy, want… want…" He's on the verge of admitting it, but he can't quite. Not yet. His eyes are wide with fear.

This is a lot all at once, but it makes Miles' eyes light up, makes him bring the knife to a halt at the middle of Bass' chest before moving it back up again, until it's close enough to force the man to bare his throat once more.

And then Miles leans in, so their lips are only a breath apart. "But you are afraid, Bass," he points out, tone soft but laden with weight all the same. "You're shaking all over. But I'm not so sure it's me you're afraid of."

Bass offers his throat much faster this time, and all around his eyes the whites show in terror.

The words are like a fucking tank to the chest. Blinking against the sudden sheen of cold sweat, he forces himself to keep going. "Not you," he admits. "Me." Miles, Miles, I am afraid. His eyes are pleading for help.

"I know, Bass," Miles whispers. "I know. Now tell me honestly… do you trust me?"

It's one question he's going to insist on an answer to… and not go any further until he hears it. Some things have to be taken seriously.

Bass nods, and there's no hesitation whatsoever. But he can't bring himself to talk; he doesn't trust his voice.

"Then say it," Miles pushes. Because he needs to hear it. Needs to sear it into his memory forever.

Okay. Miles wants to hear, it, and Bass can't refuse the man much, or for long.

He pushes his head back as far as he can, eyes closed, trying to look as submissive and compliant as he can. It's not easy, but he does it. "Miles. Miles. I trust you. I trust you with my body, my heart, my soul. Please, Miles. Please help me. I don't know how to do this. I just know I have to."

And that's just… fucking amazing. Even though the man is terrified, and Miles knows he's going to have to play this differently to how he planned… it doesn't stop it being wonderful. To hear that. To believe it.

"Bass," he whispers, "I know. I know. Now _relax_. You know you're safe with me. You've always been safe with me."

 _I'd die for you. I'd kill for you_. He can hear those words thundering in his own head, though he doesn't give them voice. Not this time.

And then he presses the knife in as close as he dares. "Now… you're going to do what I tell you," he says, voice taking on that dangerous edge again, if a little more controlled this time. "Or I'm going to stop. Understood?"

He is. Bass knows he is safe with Miles. He's always been safe with him, and he always will be. Miles, the one rock, the one foundation that stays solid in his life. And if Miles says it's okay, it's okay. So he nods, just a little. Stirs, a little restless, wondering what's coming next. His mind just won't stop running away with itself, and it's wearing him out. Being made to just lie still and accept things means he can't ignore the voices in his head. Can't pretend he can't hear them.

But he tries to latch onto Miles' voice instead. Whenever he speaks, it cuts through the panic, the worry, the fog. He just has to not stop speaking.

"Yes," he says, because he feels Miles wants him to. His voice sounds… half lost, half… not quite here. "Yes, Miles."

"That's it…" Miles whispers, understanding a little more now. For him… it's strangely easy to sink into that place, when the mood is right. Strangely easy to let go, and float on the surges of whatever Bass wants. But for Bass… yes. He can see why it might be harder.

But not impossible.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he says. "What I'd do if I hadn't let you come on this trip with me. And now… I want to write my name across every inch of your skin, so you never forget whose you are. So you never forget what that M means. The one on your arm. The one you carved into my shoulder. Us, Bass. _Us_."

He slides the knife down as he speaks, dragging it over Bass' neck, chest, left side – hard enough to raise pink marks where it's been, but not quite enough to cut.

Miles' voice is soothing, and Bass likes to listen to it. He likes to listen to it anyway. Even when it isn't rough with arousal. Hell, even first thing in the morning when the man can barely speak. So he focuses on the sound of it. How reassuring it is. How calming. How safe. The words are almost secondary to the tone.

He's nodding along now, agreeing. Not even sure he's doing it.

His eyes are still closed, but they move underneath his eyelids. They move rather more rapidly when Miles talks about the mark. It makes him blush. A silly childhood thing. The happy coincidence of their surnames had seemed so perfect to him, at the time. The better to merge together forever. And he had it put on his skin permanently though he would never have asked the same of Miles before. And he didn't, either. He just went ahead and did it. He feels a little guilty for that. For having taken advantage of him. His blue eyes snap open, full of remorse.

"Did I do right?" he asks, sounding worried. "I didn't ask. I just did it. Did I do right?" He's not sure why he's worried now, when he didn't at the time. Perhaps it's the two mindsets fighting one another. He envies how easy Miles makes this look. Perhaps he's defective, because he can't do it the same way. Not that it is from want of trying.

He arches into the knife, and the skin under the ink burns. "Please, Miles. Please. I want you to do what you want to me. I want you to use me like I used you. Please." His eyes search Miles' face. "I want us to be equal."

Miles presses the knife into Bass' side, gripping his hair with his other hand and pulling his head back, so he can lean in and speak, low and hot, close to the man's ear.

"You did right. Better than right. I hope I have that mark forever… so there's never any doubt. So anyone who sees it knows what we are. So _I_ know."

He lifts the knife, moving to trail it – very carefully – over Bass' cheek. "We are equal, Bass. Or perhaps… close to equal. You broke me last night. Broke me apart, body and soul. No one's ever done that before. And step by step… I am doing the same to you."

Bass' whole body blushes. His cheeks and his ears burn hot, but every single inch of his skin seems to be on fire. His hands are desperate to do something – anything – but he can't. He won't. He promised Miles. He makes a frustrated sound, and wishes the man would kiss him. Fuck him. Anything but this torment designed to ruin his tiny little mind.

But when Miles says he's happy… says he's glad Bass did what he did, he cries out in joy and relief. His Miles. Even when he's cuffed and shaking and pinned underneath him. His Miles. And he's Miles' Bass. Monroe and Matheson. Partners in crime. Just… partners. And Miles is happy. Bass' heart swells almost to breaking point. There was no way in hell he'd ever have asked if he wasn't already more than halfway under. He just couldn't even admit aloud he could be anything less than perfect. Not when he was… on top. Or whatever they call this.

He already feels like he's breaking apart. He's not sure how much there is left of him which isn't. But he wants to. He wants to give it all up. All of his pride, and all of his control. He needs to, more than he needs air right now. "Shatter me," he asks, quietly. And it's a request. "I need… I need you to do it to me, Miles. I can't do it without you. I'm not strong enough. Please, Miles. Please pull me apart and put me back together again." He's half a breath away from begging. And normally Bass Monroe would kill you before he begged you. For anything.

For a very long moment, Miles just stares down at him. He listens, and he watches, and then, finally, he nods, just once. "This is what's going to happen," he says, tone level and firm. "I'm going to get off you and I'm going to uncuff you for a moment. Then you're going to strip completely, and lie back down on the bed, on your front, with your hands up near the headboard so I can cuff you to it. If you hesitate, if you _deviate_ , this will not end the way either of us wants it to. Clear?"

He presses the knife firmly over Bass' throat again, just to make the point.

Bass nods. He nods a lot. His eyes are wide, but with hope instead of fear now. Orders. He can do orders. He can do Miles' orders. He's shaking again but now it's from the need to do as he's been asked.

"Good," Miles whispers, and with one last tap of the knife to his neck, he clambers off the man, getting a firm footing on the ground before he reaches to pull Bass sharply to his feet.

And in close. Because he can. And because – fuck – the man is absolutely irresistible with that look in his eyes.

Focus. He reaches to unlock one of the cuffs, leaving the other still latched around Bass' wrist. No sense doing more than he needs to.

Bass staggers a bit when he's on his feet, because he's been still for so long there's pins and needles in his arms and legs. He wobbles – horrified – and has to brace his knees so as not to fall. He wants so badly to just fall into Miles. Wants to lean into him and be embraced. But that isn't what Miles said would happen. And he wants to be good. He does.

He resists the urge to rub at his wrists, instead moving to painfully awkwardly untangle his shirt from his arms, where Miles left it. But he's losing fine motor control and so he bites his lip. Breath. And tries again. He manages it a bit better this time, and he folds the shirt briskly. (Old habits die hard.) Next is the trousers which are easier, followed by the boxers. He should have taken his boots and socks off first but that's testament to how difficult thinking is right now, and he nearly falls on his ass when he gets a foot stuck in the pants. But then those are off and folded and the boots are off with socks still inside. All without looking up.

A momentary pause, but it's barely there and he goes over to the bed. He clambers onto his hands and knees and crawls up towards the pillows. Then he eases himself down and puts his hands – wrists down – up by the headboard obediently.

He feels awfully exposed. And the waiting bit is the most awful bit. He hopes he's done a good enough job even though he's been a bit clumsier and slower than he normally would. It's difficult when you know someone is watching you. You forget how to do simple things. Like breathe.

"…?" His mouth opens to say something, but it never comes out.

And oh, but Miles is watching. He doesn't say a word, doesn't interfere, but his attention is on Bass the whole time and for most of it he doesn't even blink. He waits until the other man is in place before he makes a move himself, dropping to take off his own boots and socks, before starting to strip everything else off too – finishing by yanking off his shirt… and wincing just barely at the way that aggravates his shoulder. The spark of pain sends a heady shot of need through him, making him climb rapidly up onto the bed, straddling Bass' thighs as he leans in to loop the chain of the handcuffs around the central bar of the headboard, before closing the other cuff around Bass' wrist again.

Then he leans in close, knife back in his hand. "Do you know what's going to happen now, Bass?" he asks, tone suddenly deadly once more. "I'm going to mark you. And then I'm going to fuck you. And when I'm done… maybe I'll let you come. Maybe."

It takes all Bass' self control not to shove back into Miles when he's behind him. To try and push him into fucking him. To try encourage things along. Because that's what he does. Pushes. Pushes buttons, pushes Miles. He doesn't ask, he either takes or makes damn sure something happens. One way or another. And that knowledge when it comes to him is an ice-cold bath of reality. It's hard to look at yourself. But now he is. It's because of the silence. The gaps between things. His mind is filling them.

When Miles asks him a question, he shakes his head. He has no idea what is coming. But when Miles tells him – all the strength leaves him and he's flattened to the bed by it. By how much he needs it. Needs… all of it.

"I don't want Jeremy," he blurts out. "I'm jealous that you took him on. I'm jealous that you're helping this kid. But I don't know what to do so I do what I always do and I act like an ass and I piss about until you pay attention to me again," he says. He realises Miles might not want him to talk right now but he can't help himself. "Miles, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm evil. I'm wrong or something. I should just act like someone normal but you make me so insane I can't, and I just… I'm sorry Miles. I'm so fucking sorry."

…which is probably not what Miles even wanted to hear. But he had to confess, because it's been chewing away at him. And he can't let Miles break him unless he knows what he's in for. Which is, apparently, crazy, psychotic, manipulative and jealous.

"You don't have to apologise to me, Bass," Miles points out, but his tone is still so dangerous, low and level, like it's coming from some dark place that he so rarely lets himself venture to. "And I know you're jealous of Jeremy. But the fact is… you don't need to be. I saved him because it was right. I kept him around because he's a decent guy who doesn't deserve to be abandoned. But I don't have the slightest interest in him beyond that… and if it came to it, I'd kill him without a second's hesitation. I only have eyes for you, Bass. And I'd do anything for you. _Anything_."

He presses in close over Bass… close enough that the bandage on his shoulder brushes against the other man's skin. And then, with another wince, he tugs the bandage off, a sharp intake of breath marking the moment that the wound beneath is uncovered; vivid, still-angry red against pale skin.

"I took this mark for you," he says. "Wanted it. Needed it. _Begged_ for it. I wonder if you can do the same…"

Bass wishes he knew why they keep talking about murdering Jeremy when they're… occupied. It should disturb him more than it does. He should also stop being jealous, he knows, but he doesn't seem able to.

He hears the pull of the bandage, and it sort of makes him a bit crazy. He wants to be up again. Sitting up and touching it. Kissing it better. Kissing it deeper. He wants to see it. Wants to see the fucked-up evidence of his fucked-up self. Their fucked-up love. He wants to see it and he cranes his head to try and look.

"YES," he insists, and he's never been more sure in his life. "Miles! Please. Please. Mark me. Brand me. Write your name into my skin. FUCK, MILES. I want you to write where you've been! I want my body to say forever that it's yours and no one else's. Fuck, Miles, please fucking do it, PLEASE." He's thrashing again, but only because he's so wound and wants to make his point and perhaps although he's being obedient, there's still a pillar somewhere inside him, refusing to bend. Refusing to break. He can feel it. He grabs the pillow between his teeth to scream his anger into it. Why won't it just fucking go? "Miles," he says, breath ragged. "Miles, please. I need… I need… I'm not there I'm trying but I need… I need your help…"

Miles holds him down. Holds him until he stops thrashing. "If you want it so bad, you better keep still," he says. "Otherwise… it won't be right."

Also you might get hurt in a non-good way, but Miles suspects this will be less of a motivation, especially right now.

He leans in close, laying a firm, lingering kiss against the back of Bass' left shoulder – the place where his own mark presses against the other man's skin if he lies right against him. The place where they'll meet.

Then he lifts up. Puts a hand on Bass to keep him still again. And… – deep breath, deep breath – starts to cut, slow and careful, judging what will be deep enough to scar but no more than that.

There's blood. Fuck. There's more than he expected; bright, brilliant red, and… fuck but he must be messed up in the head if he's still getting off on this. Because he is. Fuck.

"Want… want… surrender but… hard," Bass pants out, but he feels much better being held down. The pressure helps. He doesn't know or care why.

And when Miles starts cutting him, the shock is almost too much. For a moment he forgets oxygen. He forgets everything. The bed, the house, the power, the world. It's just exquisite agony. It's biting and pulling and giving and he can feel his heart beating, can feel each push of blood rushing out of his shoulder. And with it… the fighting. The anger and the fear and the need to be running things. The way he feels he has to be… ready. When he can tell the knife lifts, he pulls hard with his wrists, yanking for all he's worth. Not trying to break free. Not trying to do anything but vent that hard, tangled, boiling mess of rage he didn't even know he lived with. He screams. And screams. And screams. He screams until his throat hurts and his eyes sting.

And when he's done screaming, his arms drop and he flops onto the bed. His eyes are streaming with tears, but he's quiet. Subdued. Ready.

The violence of this reaction… it would be easy to be halted by it, if Miles didn't understand it. But he does. Their positions have been reversed, and Miles knows what it feels like to be where Bass is now. Maybe not exactly the same – their mindsets are different, after all – but close enough that it makes sense, and it doesn't stop him.

He lets Bass scream. Knows he needs to. Knows all that anger and fear needs to be out of him before he can really let go. And when the moment finally comes… he moves his free hand, sliding it around to grip Bass' throat, knowing he needs to give the man more grounding to push through this completely, holding on tight enough to be felt, but not quite so tight that Bass can't breathe.

"Don't you move, now," he whispers, in that voice which could break grown men, and leans in to make the next cut. Four lines. That's all it will take. Four lines to slash the M into his skin. Their symbol. Their emblem. _Them_.

Bass is breathing slowly but heavily, now that the rage has gone. It's left his body tired, but a good kind of tired. And now his body is thrumming, but it's distant. Like he's watching it from far, far away. He swallows against Miles' hand. Relaxes into it. His hands are loose in the cuffs.

"Yes," he says, and his voice sounds ruined. Ruined, but calm. And almost other-worldly. "Yes." And it's positive rapture. He moans at the next incision, because it's not pain now. Not really. It's past pain and into that great place where the endorphins flood your system. Where you float. He's almost purring. "Please… more…"

 _Oh yes_. He's there. Miles knows it. Knows by the sudden surrender, the drop in his voice. And he's so overjoyed to see it, he could kiss the man.

But he doesn't. Not yet. Not whilst he's still working. He cuts the third line, slower than before, wanting Bass to feel every last flicker of movement coursing through his body, as though the mark was being cut into his soul as well as his skin.

…And fuck, he's going poetic again. Bass does that to him.

One line left. Miles leans in close, pulling Bass just a little higher using the hand on his throat. " _Beg me_ ," he orders, rough and aroused and soaring on a wave of bright, beautiful control. " _Now_."

Bass is aware his breathing is incredibly loud. Everything is very loud. The rustle of skin against bedding. The sound of bones and muscles and ligaments moving. He's aware of every last little creak of the house. And every last tiny little shake of Miles' hand as he draws the third line of their letter into him. He closes his eyes to better taste it. To better etch it forever into his mind, like it will forever be on his skin. There will be no denying it. No refuting it. No forgetting it. A slow, lazy smile curves his mouth up, and he sighs in deep contentment.

He lets Miles pull him. It pulls at the wound, opening it more, making the sharphotwet feeling slide further around his arm. The blood seems to be going all over his back – and all over the bed. They're going to have to wash or burn the sheets, he muses. Thank god it isn't a hotel with a maid who could see. She'd probably call the cops. He giggles at the thought of Miles – towel wrapped low on his hips from a shower – explaining to the nice officers that they were just 'Marines' and it's all 'fine, officer, thank you, we're very much in love and I sterilised the knife and we'll pay for dry cleaning'.

He laughs out loud. It's hard on his throat. Miles still has it.

"Please, Miles," he asks, voice sing-songy and lilting. "Please, Miles. Mark me. Complete me. I need to be all yours, always." He tries to turn his head, wanting to check his eyes. Wanting to see if he's doing well. If Miles is happy. Or if he needs more. "Hurt me. Like you love me. Like you always loved me."

"I always loved you," Miles tells him, voice a little gentler. "Even when I didn't know the full extent of it. Even when I didn't understand what it meant. Even when I wasn't brave enough to really see it. You've always meant more than the whole world to me."

He presses a firm, brisk kiss between Bass' shoulderblades. "And now you'll never forget," he adds, deadly again – and cuts the final line, as slow and as sharp as he dares, throwing all his weight into making sure he can hold the man still if need be.

This is… perfect. And he doesn't know how much longer he can wait before the urge to fuck Bass senseless becomes overwhelming. Probably not much longer. Not when every drop of his own blood feels like it's _burning_.

"I would give you the world," Bass promises. And he means it. No matter what fucked up shit he's ever done in his life… it's all revolved around Miles. Always. It's all been one big, screwed up love song. But it's okay now. Because they can be together. And so the song has a happy ending, no matter the chorus. "I would give you anything you asked."

He doesn't fight the last mark. How could he? It's like coming home. Beautiful, blazing heat. His whole network of veins filled with hot, sticky, coppery love. Because it's the heart, not the head. Always the heart. He sighs again, a perfectly happy sound. The sound of a man who has everything. He could just drift here forever. He keeps his eyes closed, and then he really is purring like a giant cat.

"Bass…" Miles whispers, reaching to set the knife down. "My wonderful Bass."

He slides the hand free from his throat, stroking it through his hair for a few moments, just… giving him time. Time to feel. Time to drift. Time to revel in this.

And then… he pushes up, releasing the pressure he's been using to keep Bass still, running a hand down the side of his back as he climbs right off the other man.

"Up on your knees," he orders, softly.

"Yes," Bass says again. Not to anything in particular, just as a way of affirming he's happy, and he is happy to let Miles keep calling the shots. He pushes carefully into the hand in his hair, the gentle touches bliss. Any attention bliss. He hums deep in his throat.

And unlike before, when Miles moves from him, he registers it and is sad, but accepts it. Accepts whatever Miles has to throw at him. Although he is happy to be given another instruction shortly after, and he goes straight to work trying to obey. Trying, because his legs are weak from being pinned, and because he's light-headed from the blood-loss and other things. And his hands are still tied up. Not even registering that it will hurt, he pulls back with his wrists to get some purchase – and that makes his shoulder worse, and he goes dizzy again. A little hiss, but it's a momentary setback at best. He's a Marine. He can deal with this. He gets his knees underneath him, parted slightly for balance, and puts his palms flat onto the bed. Still cuffed to the headboard. Blood trickles down his shoulder, past his elbow, to his wrist. He stares at it wonderingly.

"…am making a mess. Sorry."

"Don't apologise," Miles tells him. "I wanted you to see it. Wanted you to see what I've done. _To you_."

"I like it," Bass says, in that dreamy way again. Watching the slow, warm trickle. It gets stuck on the handcuff, and slides around before dripping onto his hand. It's hypnotic to watch. "So pretty."

Miles waits until Bass is in place before he moves again, reaching for the lube (still conveniently on the bedside table from the previous night) and briskly slicking his cock with it. And then… he should really prepare the man at least a little first. Should. But he doesn't. Because… he wants this rough. Wants him to feel it, not just now but all day tomorrow. Wants him to feel it the way Miles will – the way Miles _did_ – seared onto him, body and soul.

Fuck, yes.

Up on his knees, he moves in close behind Bass, starting to push into him without preamble… and _fuck_ he feels incredible. " _Yes_ ," he breathes, in a rapture all of his own.

Bass is still staring at the blood when Miles moves behind him. He can't quite remember, or think beyond the moment. It's too complicated. So he doesn't even work out what's going to happen until it does. And when it does, he just says: "Oh." But it's an 'oh' of surprise, and intense pleasure. Really intense pleasure. Because for all he's relaxed it's still a squeeze to push into him like that. And it tugs his ass in a weird way, and sort of feels like his insides have to move around to let Miles in. It's hot. And nice. And good. And 'oh' doesn't really cut it, but it comes close.

"…more!" he says, hands clawing at the bed a little. "Please. Please more." It's started off an itch. A deep, deep itch. And though he should recognise it, he doesn't.

So good when their wants correlate. Not exactly rare, but so good.

Miles starts to fuck him hard, one hand on his hip, keeping him in place thrust after thrust, and _fuck_ but he feels so wonderful, so warm and willing and the more Miles takes, the more he needs, until he's moving with every drop of energy he's got left – fully intent on fucking Bass completely out of his mind. If he's even still in it.

"Don't you dare come," he growls. "Don't you dare come until I give you permission."

Thank fuck he doesn't have to suffer the same restriction himself this time… because he's so over-wrought with need that he doesn't know if he even has the strength to hold back. Not like this. Not when Bass makes him so crazy. Not when his whole body sings with love and want and power, blazing like the sun.

"Ooooooh," Bass says, intelligently. Because he can't say the words, because the words don't really exist. He doesn't know of any that would suitably convey how his heart feels like it's constricting and fit to explode. Or how his shoulder burns like it's going into nuclear meltdown. Or how each sharp, harsh little snap of Miles' hips jolts him all the way to the core. Pushes things inside he only recently found he had. Pulls him raw and open and needing. "Oooooooohhhh!"

He doesn't need to be told, he knows enough to move to make this easier on them. Easier for Miles to fuck him senseless. Easier for the man to grab him, and take him. And use him. And pound him.

"Please!" he begs, when it starts to be too much. When the pleasure is verging on pain all of its own. "Please, Miles, oh please, please…" He jams his eyes shut to see the sparkles on the black, hazing around his vision. Everything tunnelling down into want, push, hot. But he won't disobey. He won't. Won't. Even if it kills him. "PLEASE," he begs, his voice sore with anguish. From knowing how close he is, but not able to follow his body over the cliffside. "PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!" With every. Single. Thrust.

Miles is so close now. So close. He leans in again, sliding the fingers of his free hand through Bass' hair, pulling his head up. "You're going to take it," he growls, not seeing the need to elaborate on what 'it' is. "And if you do… I might just let you come afterwards."

Might. He lets that word hang there, like an invisible Sword of Damocles, terrible and deadly.

And then he throws everything he's got left into fucking the man senseless, over and over until it's all too much and with a rough, almost pained cry he's coming thunderously hard, not slowing or stopping as he takes and takes and takes and _fuck_ it all feels so incredible he can hardly breathe.

Bass nods. And nods. It's not easy to do that, with hands in his hair. But he tries anyway.

And then Miles is fucking him for all he's worth and he can't remember ever feeling this full, this loved, this used. He screams at the top of his lungs because it's just so good and so cruel because he has to not come. Has to not come even though his body is begging him. And when Miles comes, he can feel every last tremor of his cock. Can feel every last spasm. Can feel how he spurts scaldingly hot inside, coating him. Owning him, inside and out. And that's as good as the mark on his shoulder.

Bass' hands are shaking from keeping himself upright. He makes a pathetic noise. Utterly, utterly broken. And no longer afraid. At all.

"Fuck, Bass, just… _fuck_ …" Miles breathes, half-collapsing on top of him for a moment, the sensations still nigh-on overwhelming. And then… then he slides a hand down and around to seize hold of Bass' cock, starting to stroke it with all the energy he's got left, over and over and over until he's sure it's going to drive _him_ mad, never mind the way it must surely be making _Bass_ feel. And only then does he lean in once more, growling one last word in the other man's ear.

" _Come_."

The hand on his cock is punishingly good, and Bass wonders what god he pissed off or pleased to make Miles do this to him. He screams at each touch to his already tortured skin, and it feels like every pound of his heart just makes his cock go harder and harder and then – then! – Miles says he can come.

He does not need telling twice. In fact, the word is barely past Miles' lips before, with a guttural scream, Bass is frantically coming. His fingernails scratch at the bedding, his shoulder tensing and hurting all the more, his legs giving way and then trying to get back under him and going again. He slams his head down into the mattress in one last attempt to stay up, as his cock feels like it explodes all over everything. And he wails at how… overwhelming it all is. Before he all but blacks out and goes limp.

And it's all thunderously beautiful to watch – and to feel, from so close up. Miles just holds onto him throughout, the stroking gradually slowing until it's all over, and he can really collapse on top of the other man, sliding arms around him and whispering adoration against his skin, holding on tight.

"Bass… oh, Bass, that was amazing… just relax, now, relax, I've got you, I've always got you…"

Bass wants to say something sensible and suitable for the occasion. Really, he does. But Miles just fucked his brains out, after fucking his brain _out_ of his head to begin with. So instead he bursts out crying in relief, messy, happy, shocked and gasping little sobs.

He turns his head, wanting kisses. Wanting holding. Wanting to stay here forever. Raw, bleeding, open. His.

"M-Mi-Miles…" The adrenaline come-down suddenly making him jitter.

Miles wraps around him even more tightly, holding on as hard as he dares. "I've got you, I've got you," he whispers again, wanting the other man to feel reassured. To know he's safe. Know he's held. And know he'll stay that way.

With one hand, he reaches up, seizing the key and moving to unlock the handcuffs, freeing Bass' wrists and tossing the cuffs onto the bedside table before pulling the other man's arms down, tangling them in his, holding on even tighter.

And then he can kiss him, on his back, his neck, again and again, needing him to feel as loved as he is. Which is a lot.

Bass hugs Miles' arms to his chest, clinging like he needs him to live. Which he thinks he does, right about now. Thinks he needs forever. He's still crying but it's silent, just tears streaming down his face. His shoulder hurts, but it's a good kind of hurt. Even if it is going to be a state for some time now. He doesn't care.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will be sore. Tomorrow he will remember that he gave Miles the power of life or death. Tomorrow he will look at it in the cold light of day.

And he knows he won't regret a thing. Except not doing this sooner.

He offers his throat in a final act of submission, eyes heavy-lidded. "I belong to you," he whispers. "And you make my heart complete." He noses gently at the underside of Miles' jaw. He's not sure he'll be able to speak another word tonight.

"You do," Miles says, softly. "As I belong to you. Always, Bass. Always."

Somewhat reluctantly, Miles pulls out of him, shifting position so he can roll Bass onto his back, before sliding on top of him once more. He reaches over to the bedside table, finding one of the spare field dressings left there from when they were dealing with _his_ shoulder that morning, and opens it up, rolling Bass just enough to get the dressing onto the wound on his back, smoothing it into place.

And now Miles can relax at last, pressing in close to kiss Bass slow and deep, finally on the lips, bringing a hand up to stroke his jaw. Wanting him to know how wonderful he is.

Bass is a bit sad that Miles lets go of him, even though when his eyes track what Miles is doing it makes some logical sense. It fucking hurts when he puts the dressing on, though, because it has to be stuck in place and it had sort of started to clot. But he takes it like a man and honestly does not make any girly sounds. Much.

Kisses are much better. And the kiss does a lot to soothe the hurt. He puts his hands up shakily to rest on Miles' forearms. Just needing to feel him near.

It's getting colder now, now the exertion is over and the sweat and blood and come is drying on his skin. He shivers just once, then turns those too-blue eyes onto Miles. Reaches out with his good arm to glance over the exposed and healing cut on Miles' shoulder. His will look like this, tomorrow night. Or similar enough. The skin looks angry and swollen, and already it's trying to knit back together to close the gap between the two sides. Like this. With them. The gap was too long, but it's going now. Broken open, so it can heal right. On an impulse, he tries sitting up, just enough to press his lips against the wound. A slow, slow, soft little kiss. And then he's burying his face in the crook of Miles' neck. "Family," he murmurs, wonderingly.

He thought he'd lost all his. But he still has one left. He smiles, holding on a little tighter. But it's clear from his movement that he's having a hard time staying up.

That contact sends a little spark of pleasure running all the way through Miles, though he's too exhausted to act on it. He closes his eyes against the feeling for a second, letting it chase through him, and then he wraps his arms tighter around Bass, making him lie back down but not letting go.

"Yes," he whispers. "Family. You and me. Forever. I've got you, Bass. It's OK."

He strokes his hand over Bass' chest, up over his neck and to his jaw again. "Thank you," he says, softly. "Thank you for giving me this. It means the world to me."

Bass leans into every damn little touch like it's manna from heaven. Right now it feels like it is. Miles could hit him with a slipper and he'd be beaming. Although it almost feels too much, he can cope.

He sounds confused with Miles saying thank you, and his brow knits with questions. "Why?" he asks, managing some of them. "Told you. Even. Have to. Want to." He wishes he could feel more eloquent, but right now he doesn't. "Equal." In all senses. Bass would never ask something he wouldn't give back. "Has to. Have to. Always. Anything." He hopes the meaning is clear enough through that. He hugs him a bit tighter. "Partners."

"That's right," Miles agrees, gently. Stroking soothing patterns over Bass' cheek, his neck, his good shoulder. "Partners. You and me. But that doesn't mean I can't be grateful. Doesn't mean I shouldn't be."

Because he should be. And he is. And the realisation is sending waves of that gratitude rushing through him, making every nerve ending sing again – not with rough, physical pleasure, but with something much deeper, much more intense. The realisation of what he can finally call his own.

"Okay." Bass decides it's okay for Miles to be happy. Because he is. Even though he should just take for granted that he could take – ask, demand, grab – anything he wants. Maybe he'll tell him that in the morning.

He makes a low, happy, humming noise. Miles' hands are so nice. He can't keep his hand away from his shoulder, though. Can't stop reaching out to it. "Going to hurt for a while," he says. "Probably need some antibiotics in case."

"Might be sensible," Miles agrees. Even though their stocks of medical supplies are limited… but they've probably got a lot more than most.

He leans in again to kiss Bass slow and lingering, trying to push all of his love and contentment into that one, simple gesture. Wanting him to feel it, so he knows how wonderful he is.

The kiss is nice. Nice and soothing. Bass smiles when it's over, and he reaches out to stroke Miles' face, push his fingers through his hair. His left arm is aching too much, so he just uses the fingers on that one to stroke tiny little lines.

"Wish we could stay," he murmurs. "Me and you. Here. Forever." His eyes close as he thinks about it. Maybe they could farm. Maybe they could teach hunting. They could keep the people safe and they could have a home.

But it's just a little dream. He stops any answer by putting a finger over Miles' lips. "I know. I know. Chicago. But maybe some day we could all come back. You and me and Jeremy and Ben and Rachel and the kids. It wouldn't be so bad." He has to bite his lip to hold in a yawn, and his hand falls back to his chest.

It's a strangely nice dream. Not what Miles ever expected to want out of life, and yet… so appealing. But he knows it can't happen, at least not any time soon. They can't stay. He has to find Ben.

He's about to say as much when Bass puts that finger to his lips, and just nods in understanding instead. "Maybe," he says, when the finger moves. "But whatever happens… wherever we go, wherever we end up… I have you. And you have me. And that's the most important thing."

He presses in closer, holds on tighter. The protective wave is overwhelming now.

"Yes," Bass says again. It's his favourite word around Miles these days. "Don't care. Go to Mars. If we could walk. Prefer not to. Too pink."

He finds the hole in the sheet where he cut out the rudimentary bandage last night, and it makes him smile. He toys with it, over and over. "Think might need pass out soon. You broke me," he says, accusingly.

"I know," Miles tells him, with a little grin that just hints on devious. "That was the idea." He strokes a gentle hand along Bass' collarbone. "Sleep. I've got you."

It's a very appealing prospect to him, too.

"Don't ever change," Bass insists, but the voice is sleepier and sleepier. And despite trying to wait for an answer… he can't.

***

Miles comes to with a jump. Blinking his eyes open, he's vaguely aware that there's light – must be morning – and that he was dreaming something strange before he woke… though he can't remember what it was.

He's still tangled in Bass, resting half on top of him, face pressed into the crook of his neck. Slowly, he lifts up just enough to kiss the man on the jaw, trying to wake him very gently.

Bass registers the kissing, but he's still very, very tired. He does, however, crack his eyes open just a fraction to see what's going on.

And sees Miles – who needs a shave – pressed in close. He smiles and lifts his arms to grab a hold, which is when he aggravates the mark on his shoulder and his eyes go sharp with pain.

"…ow…" he says, weakly. And starts remembering. "Uhm. Hi." His smile is lopsided, and he rubs the back of his good hand over his eyes. How is he supposed to feel? Or act? He's not sure. He can still feel the lingering traces of how out of it he'd been. It's like waking up still drunk.

"Hey," Miles says, shifting position so he's not crushing Bass quite so much – and so he can run a hand over the man's chest. "Sleep well? You… were pretty out of it."

Somewhat incredibly so. Fuck, don't think about it too much, it makes concentrating hard. And other things.

"Uhm. Like the dead, I think." Bass licks at his lips, which are somewhat dry. Ah, yes, they did have a few drinks first. Which explains why he's so thirsty now.

"I think I had dreams, but I can't remember them. I think they were good dreams. Possibly they involved… aliens?" He chews his lip, then shakes his head. "Nope. Gone."

He lets his head fall back on the pillow, just… enjoying being touched. "If I'm remembering last night right…?"

"You were amazing," Miles says, voice suddenly heavy with sincerity and intent. "I don't think I've ever seen you more magnificent… except when our places were reversed. Fuck, Bass, you were just… _fuck_ …"

Barely able to get the words out, he settles for kissing Bass instead, stroking that hand up to cup his jaw. A little… overwhelmed by the memories.

Bass is shaking a bit. The memories are coming hard and heavy. Did he? Did he really? And then? And with? Shoulder be damned, he grabs Miles' biceps. Hard.

"Every time I think you showed me the end of what's possible, the limit of amazing, you take me one step over the edge," he says. "We… we need. To keep doing that." He licks his lips again. "Please. Not right now because you will kill me if you do anything that good right now and I don't want to die." He puts his palm over Miles' heart. Underneath the mark. He wonders if he did that deliberately, on some level. "I… I've never…" His eyes go over to the wall, then unfocus. "I've never… let anyone. Not really. I mean. Not like that." Gulp. "I want to do it again."

"I know," Miles replies, tone still a little rough and… dark. "Me too. Both ways."

So does Bass. Both ways. He loves to have Miles screaming and mindless and his. But… he also knows he likes it when Miles does the same to him, now. Which is good. Really good. When he worked out how to flip his switch right. He wonders if it will be easier with practice. Even if not, Miles seems not to care.

Miles tilts Bass' head back, leaning in to kiss him again – first on the lips, and then down the side of his neck, over his throat. Just… claiming him again, even if only a little. And then… then the urge takes hold somewhat more, and he grasps both of Bass' hands, lifting to press them into the pillows either side of his head, holding them there.

"You'll feel like this for hours. Maybe all day. And every time you move the wrong way and catch that wound… it will get stronger. And you can't stop it – won't _want_ to stop it – because that's _me_ , taking you all over again. Marking you out as _mine_."

Kisses. Kisses are great. Bass' lips tingle, and Miles' morning stubble scratches in all the right ways. He knows anyone will take one look at him and realise. If they haven't already. And that makes something knot deep down. Something good. He cries out at the kisses, and throws his head back in surrender, asking for more. All the kisses. All his.

And then Miles moves his hands and fuck but the world shifts sideways about fifty yards and he's not sure how he's not falling to his death from this height. Apparently he's still not flipped the switch back, or something, because having his hands held down feels fucking awesome and he cries out in rough pleasure.

He wonders if he's bleeding again. He feels like he might be. He wonders if he could keep bleeding like this forever. A stupid desire, but there nonetheless. And then there's the slight burning feeling between his legs. The way his ass still feels sore from the abuse last night.

"Fuck me," Bass begs. "Please, Miles, please fuck me. Please. I'm yours. I swear I'm yours. I'll do anything you ask, Miles." Yeah. That switch isn't moving for a while. He's clearly stuck in position. And he fucking loves it right now. And judging by the fire in Miles' eyes, he's still not reset from the night before either.

He really hasn't – otherwise Miles would be pointing out that they ought to be taking the sensible option and not overdoing it, and instead maybe getting up and going to find out if Jeremy and Ollie are still around or have run off into the woods in response to what happened last night.

But he doesn't, because the fire in his mind is bright and strong and overwhelming, and all it takes is those wonderful words tumbling from Bass' lips to overrule any kind of common sense. Instead, he pushes the man's legs apart, slipping back between them, and reaches to grab the lubricant and apply some before he forgets why he should.

And then… he can slide into Bass all at once, as far as he can, leaning in close once he has to kiss the man again.

" _Mine_ ," he whispers, soft but heavy with meaning. " _Beg me_."

Bass pulls his feet up as close to his ass as he can, the better to lift his hips and let Miles lie between his legs. He's not even ashamed. He's not even ashamed that he's held pinned to the bed and that alone makes him spread his legs and beg. How can he be ashamed when Miles' eyes are so beautiful? How can he be when the man has such a perfect, strong jaw? And wild, gorgeous hair. And smells of them And fits inside him like a hand in a glove. It makes him dizzy with wanting, and it feels so wonderful to be filled again. He wonders vaguely why it took them so long to realise.

Oh yeah, stupid heterosexual male pride and all that. Well past-them don't know what they're missing. And what they are missing is Miles' cock pushed right into his already-sore ass. He wraps his thighs around Miles' waist, and grinds down hard onto his cock. Fuck.

And proving he's not entirely Miles' bitch, he bites the man's lips. Not hard enough to do damage, just a tiny little nibble. Because he wants more. A lot more. His feet scrabble to try and pull him in deeper. And tries to find Miles' hands, so he'll kindly hold him down again.

That's more than enough to make Miles grab his wrists and pin him with all the strength he can muster so soon after waking, pressing him down hard, right back in his face.

" _BEG ME_ ," he orders again, firmer this time, and punctuates it with a long, rough thrust of the hips. Because he can. And _fuck_ , it's so good it makes the world slide slightly out of focus.

His blood is thundering in his ears – and everywhere else as well – making him _need_ the way he did last night. Need to take. Need to claim. Need to _own_. Not so much need to hurt, which is perhaps for the best, although he knows it would come if provoked. Probably far too easily.

"PLEASE," Bass yells, just as loudly. His voice is still scratchy from all the screaming, from just waking, from not drinking. He sounds awful. Like a man with only one thing left to lose. Which is true.

"PLEASE, MILES, PLEASE." He struggles but only weakly, because his strength has mostly deserted him. Because he's still tired from sleep, and still sore. And because he doesn't want to fight. Not Miles. Not now.

He uses all the strength in his legs to ram himself harder, impale himself further. And the breath goes out of his lungs. "Please," he begs, a broken man. "Please…"

That's enough. More than enough. Miles kisses him bruisingly, starting to fuck him as hard as he can. It's early, and he knows neither of them will really last, but it doesn't matter, because he doesn't want slow and careful and drawn-out. He wants hard, rough, quick, dirty, devious, _now_.

" _Mine_ ," he growls, moving to ravage Bass' throat, kissing and nipping and sucking at the tender skin, wanting to drive the man right back out of his mind. "All of you. Always. _Mine_."

It feels so fucking good that Bass' eyes roll up to the top of his head, so fucking good that it's like white hot spears of pleasure are jamming him inside. He pulls with his wrists, desperate to touch himself. Desperate to finish this. But Miles won't let him, and he's at the mercy of the man's evil, gorgeous, nasty little mind. He screams in pleasure, offering him his surrender, offering him his life. Everything.

If Miles bit his throat right out right now, he'd die happy. And not in the slightest bit concerned.

"Please… please…" Hoarse, hard to talk when you're being fucked senseless again, voice jolting with each thrust. "I surrender. I surrender. Please…"

And – without even thinking if he should or not – he comes from the pounding, a soft wail of happiness bubbling up out of his throat.

Oh, but that's good – to feel, and to cause. Miles' eyes are utterly black again as he leans to whisper in Bass' ear, voice rough and positively dripping with dark pleasure. "You love this, don't you? _You little slut_."

And with just a couple more harsh thrusts he's coming too, gasping as completion rips through him and leaves him breathless, soaring on some incredible power high. It feels… more wonderful than he has the words for. Feels like the whole world, broken open and lying at his feet. Like sunset in the desert, the roar of a helicopter, the echo of gunfire.

Everything. Everything. _His_.

Bass nods. He is. He's a complete whore. But just for Miles. And all he can think for some long moments is how good he feels. How his whole body is thrumming with pleasure. And Miles still going. He holds him with what strength he has left. Holds him until he's spent too. And when he knows Miles is finished, his legs slide off him and he lies – spreadagled – on the bed. Grinning. The insane grin of the man who has everything.

"Fuck yeah." His heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels like… he feels like he's happy. And he is. Body and soul.

Eyes closed, he just… breathes. Feels. Every little nerve ending on fire.

"…thank you."

Miles grins, the weight of what's inside his head blissfully shattering a little in the surge of the afterglow. "You're welcome," he says, still holding Bass down but stroking his wrists now, and moving in to kiss him, slow and lingering this time.

"My Bass," he whispers, in between. "All mine."

And then he finally relaxes, letting go of Bass' wrists and curling in against him, drinking in the contact.

Bass grabs him in an impulsive hug. Not one of those 'manly' hugs where you just slap one another. An honest-to-goodness, head-to-toe hug. He's feeling giddy and happy. And relaxed. Maybe Miles fixed something inside. He feels like maybe he did. Something he never knew was broken.

"I fucking love you. Gay and whatever the fuck. I do, Miles. I know I say it but I mean it. I mean it. I've fucked people before but… fuck me, Miles. You do something to me I don't think anyone in the world could ever have done." Riding on the surge of emotion, he grabs his head and pulls him in for a kiss. A long, fuck-me-I-love-you kiss. And when it's done, his eyes are shining. The world is fine. More than fine.

"And now I have to spend a day pretending I don't want to just fall at your feet and beg you to look at me." His eyes are laughing. "I don't know how to do that. But I'm going to have to try. And if Jeremy so much as asks me how I like my toast it's going to be all I can do not to say 'hot and covered in Miles'."

Miles laughs. "It would almost be worth it to see his reaction," he says, and then, because he knows he should take this seriously as well, he slides his hand around to stroke through Bass' hair, holding but not hurting.

"I love you too. You're my whole fucking world, Bass. My whole fucking _reason_. And whatever's to come… so long as I have you, nothing else matters."

He kisses the man again, hard and quick. Doesn't want to ever move again. Hates knowing that they have to. "…You know we should probably get up soon. Before I forget that we can't just stay here forever."

Bass preens. He likes being held. Likes it an awful lot. And he's still amused at the imagined reaction from Jeremy. He's sure Jeremy would just hold up a butter knife and ask Miles to climb on. The kid, however, would probably run a mile. Bass tries to remember it's a bad idea to scare young, impressionable… youths.

He sighs when Miles says that, and wishes they had a working shower. Or a nice, cold lake or river. That would be good. "Yeah. I know. You might have to make it soon because I might cry blue murder if you let me stay much longer." With his good arm, he squeezes Miles tight. His bad arm burns, but it's a slow burn. "Shall we go see if they are still talking to us?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Miles agrees.

And so – slowly – they start to extricate themselves from each other and the bed, getting sorted and dressed as best they can, and then wandering downstairs.

Thankfully, Jeremy and Ollie have taken the hint this time and aren't lurking in the kitchen (which is for the best, given all the yelling), and so Miles and Bass head out, following the pathway round to Ollie's house. Miles hammers a couple of times on the door, then pushes it open.

"Hello?"

Jeremy and Ollie are sitting in the front room, in the middle of a heated (but friendly) discussion.

"…sorry kid but they couldn't hit a barn with a Death Star," Jeremy concludes, before turning to say good morning to their visitors. "Hey you two. There's coffee in the pot if you're interested. And I can rustle up some toast if you need."

Bass goes a bit pink. "Coffee…" he mumbles, and goes off to the kitchen before he does something bad.

"I'm sure Bass would love toast…" Miles remarks, with a truly evil grin that lasts for just a second. Then it mellows, and he's all sweetness and light… well. As much as the man is ever sweetness and light. Which, to be honest, is not very.

He goes in search of coffee himself, very much in favour of it, before finding a chair and settling into it.

"You two sleep all right?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's so nice having a bed again. I don't remember the last time I had one," Jeremy says, wondering why toast is a source of amusement now. But Bass is somewhere in the kitchen and he hopes to god the man is not setting it on fire.

"Turns out Ollie and I… well. We could almost have been brothers. We got a lot in common," he says, smiling over at him. "I guess geeks are a dying breed now."

"We'll always have a place in the world," Ollie says, wistfully. "Even after it ends. Oh, there's a show in that… shame the internet doesn't work anymore…"

"Kinda like the Stand," Jeremy says, wistfully. "You ever read that?"

Seemingly on the point of replying, Ollie pauses. He has that look again. The one he keeps getting. Like he really wants to say something but isn't sure how.

He looks at Miles. "…I need to ask you something," he says, suddenly, very fast, as if scared of getting stopped mid-sentence.

Miles gives him an odd look. "What is it, kid?"

"…I… Uhm. I've been thinking, and… When you three leave… when you carry on off to Chicago… can I come with you?"

 _Oh_. Miles' expression mellows, but he shakes his head. "That wouldn't be the best idea. We seem to attract trouble. And I don't want you getting hurt."

Bass chooses this moment to walk back in. There is a distinct smell of smoke following him, and he looks rather pleased with himself. He seems to have toasted some bread. It's home-baked bread so it hasn't sliced very well and he's overdone it in some places and other places look a bit cold. But there's a slice each. They have something yellow and probably butter on them.

"I made breakfast!" he says, proudly, and offers everyone a piece. He starts munching his, and says around a mouthful, "WhatdidImith?"

"Promise me you didn't set the kitchen on fire," Miles says. "Even with that little hexi-stove." He reaches for some toast, before discovering that it isn't quite toast, but decides he should probably eat it anyway because it's food and he's hungry.

"I didn't set the kitchen on fire," Bass says, with his hand on his heart. "I did ruin some of the bread though. Sorry. It got a bit too thin in the middle so it set on fire so I put it outside for the birds. After I put the fire out." He may be lying. But he smiles sweetly enough.

Ollie, meanwhile, is refusing to back down. "I know it's dangerous!" he insists. "But at least I won't be on my own anymore, and… and I can do something useful. Join up with your little…-" – he waves a hand at the three of them – "-…whatever this is."

"I get what you're saying," Miles answers. "Really, I do. But you'd be better off staying with the people you know. Even if your brother isn't here… this place is your home. And these people are going to need someone sensible to lead them."

"…This isn't my home," Ollie replies, oddly quietly. "I just live here at the moment."

Jeremy blinks at Ollie. A lot. And chews his lip.

"Miles…" he says, in a tone that normally Bass is the only one to use. "Miles… we can't leave him."

Bass blinks. Another one? It's probably a good thing he's still in a good mood. Because he's less likely to explode or something. He opens his mouth to say no too… but something in Jeremy's eyes, and something in the kid's…

There is a long, silent debate. A long one. Thankfully no one is looking at Bass because while he's in the middle of it, he looks a bit insane. He decides to wait for Miles to reply before he says anything else.

This long, meaningful moment is somewhat broken by Ollie looking at Bass, then at the kitchen door, then back to Bass, muttering, "please promise me the toast isn't still on fire out there…" and darting off to check the status of a) the kitchen and b) the garden. Which is sensible in and of itself, although does also allow him to run off before he gets upset.

When he's gone, Miles looks over at Jeremy. "I understand where you're coming from," he says. "But if we take him along… what if we get him killed?"

What if _I_ get him killed?

"Miles," Bass says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You do know he's just as likely to wind up dead if we leave him wandering the countryside on his own, or in a town that's marked for death?"

Jeremy stands up, hotly. "Bass is right! And it should be Ollie's choice. You two saved my life. I have no doubt you will save his too."

Miles rubs a hand over his eyes. "Look, I get it, but… you were the one who said we shouldn't be picking people up, Bass! Now you want to add _another_ member to our merry band..? This trip is dangerous – more so now we know there's some maniac running bandit groups across the countryside! The kid won't be safer with us. _We're_ not safer with us."

Bass glances over at Jeremy, wincing, because now Miles has just gone and admitted yet again that Bass didn't want Jeremy around. Way to make him feel wanted.

He takes a deep breath. tries to pull himself together enough to stand up to Miles. He's still… feeling a little under-powered from last night… but some things are worth it.

"Miles Matheson. You single-handedly saved Jeremy from bandits. You saved him. He would be dead without you, and I'm sure he doesn't mind me saying it." A glance to the man confirms it, and Jeremy stands back to let them at it.

"You then proceeded to save them all from the bandits attacking their town. And yes. I will admit. Both times I have thought you were risking your hide for nothing. But when we got Jeremy, I – I'm glad, Miles. I love you fiercely and I want to spend most of my waking hours doing obscene things to you. But you're… you're the one who goes around saving people." He pulls his sidearm out, and puts it on the table. "Like you saved me." He does not need to say when, or why, or how.

"So quit it. Quit panicking. You're a damn good soldier, and an even better leader. You save that kid, because if that was your nephew and someone said 'not my problem' and walked off? You'd shoot them yourself."

Bass decides that's enough talking, so he steals Jeremy's slice of toast. And Ollie's.

Miles looks down. The man has a point. The man has quite a lot of points, and it rather hurts to hear them.

Especially the sidearm. For just a second… he looks agonised. But he doesn't say a word about it.

Just as he's about to reply to the rest, the door swings open and Ollie comes in, looking like he's psyched up to say more – and also like he may have been handling something that was on fire, because there's traces of ash on his hands.

"OK, three things," he says, before Miles can get a word in. "One: seriously, Bass, _extinguish_ burning toast before you put it outside because you do not want to know how close you came to causing a major geranium-related blaze. Two: I'm serious, this isn't my hometown and I'm not staying here, even if the people refuse to go, and if that means I have to leave on my own then I really _am_ more likely to get killed. And three… I'm not asking for a free ride. I can be useful. Like… all those horses we took from the bandits. I bet you're planning to keep a few of those. Get you to Chicago much faster."

"…Thought had crossed my mind," Miles admits, giving him a careful look.

"Makes sense," Ollie answers. "So. Any of you actually know how to ride a horse?"

"I did put the fire out!" Bass insists. "Maybe it reignited! And those geraniums looked at me funny."

Jeremy shakes his head. "I know they come in three speeds but other than that my experience with them is mostly limited to wishing I had Shadowfax."

"You can ride?" Miles says to Ollie, studiously ignoring the other two.

Ollie nods. "Since I was five. So… how about this? I teach you three how to ride a horse without falling on your asses, and in return, you let me come along."

Miles knows he can't refuse now. Not after Bass' impassioned speech, and not after Ollie's very reasonable offer. "…Fine," he says. "You got yourself a deal, kid. But remember whose idea this was."

Jeremy does a little 'yes' fist pump, and when Bass looks archly at him, he shrugs. "Now we get to be the four Horsemen."

"You mean… of the Apocalypse?" Bass asks, sceptical.

"…Or possibly something a little less ominous," Ollie suggests. He still looks somewhat hesitant. And so, so hopeful.

"Well, come on, then," Miles says, getting up, "if we're going to learn to ride, you better take us to these horses."

"Don't we need stirrups? And cowboy hats?" Bass has forgotten he's supposed to be nice. He does remember to pick his sidearm up and reholster it, though.

"We can't be the Magnificent Seven with four of us, and I am not being the Fantastic Four," Jeremy insists.

"Will you speak English?" Bass asks.

"Just so long as you don't even suggest the Three Musketeers," Ollie says. "Because I am _not_ being D'Artagnan."

Miles leans down close to Bass. "Do you think they'll stop eventually?" he asks, in a low whisper.

"Maybe if we make out enough?" Bass asks, hopefully. "Or maybe this is how nerds flirt. We should let them at it and when they aren't looking you can screw me up against the geraniums?"

"Maybe Ollie likes guys too," Miles wonders. "You think we have some thing which makes us only attract the gay ones?"

He tries not to think about the rest, though, because it's distracting. And also because until very recently the geraniums were on fire.

Fortunately, Jeremy isn't listening. "Oh you so are. But I'm slightly worried about which one that makes me…"

"I so am not!" Ollie insists, hands on his hips in what is clearly supposed to be a firm, decisive sort of a way and ends up only proving the point all the more. Then he sighs, and adds, "You're _so_ Porthos."

Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Well I wasn't Athos. That's Miles. And I guess Bass is enough of a…" he glances back, then bites his tongue. "Yeah. Aramis." He doesn't want Miles to chop his dick off, so he doesn't go any further.

"See, another reason to bring him along," Bass says to Miles. "Now Jeremy can listen to our creepy sex noises with a friend." He tries to make that sound appealing, but he really doesn't know how to. "Uhm. Should we let him tell Ollie?"

"…Yeah, maybe we ought to let Jeremy handle that part…" Miles agrees. And then before the other two can get any worse, he raises his voice again. "If you two are quite done with your little… nerd-thing… maybe we should be going?"  
Ollie stares over at him for about five seconds and then collapses into giggles. Because Miles is _so_ Athos.

Bass narrows his eyes at Jeremy in a 'you will tell me everything, later' way.

"Uhm. Yes. Okay. We can't be horsemen without horses," Jeremy says, trying not to think about the others in tights. With swords. And hats. Mostly the tights.

It really is a good job Miles can't read minds.

***

Ollie leads them out to the outskirts of the town, where there's a good-sized paddock on the edge of the first fields. Contained within it are the horses recovered from the bandit camp – twelve in total, all different sizes and colours.

As they approach the fence, one of the closer horses walks over – it's the painted palomino from before. Ollie puts a hand out to rub its nose. "Hey, boy," he says, softly.

Jeremy looks at the horses. And he realises he has no idea what to look for. How to tell if one is good or not. "Uhm. How… how do I pick?" he asks.

Bass rolls his eyes, and grabs the fence. He springs over it, and it's lucky no one is ahead of him to see how pale he goes, as he's forgotten to be careful of his left arm. "You pick a big one, or your toes will scrape the floor," he says, wandering around and trying to look like he knows what he's doing.

"Bass is right about that," Ollie says. "Choose one who's big enough for you. One you like the look of. Maybe one that doesn't try to bite you as soon as you get close," he adds, seeing the way Miles steps hastily back from one that doesn't look at all impressed by him.

Ollie, obviously, has already chosen, judging by the way he still hasn't let go of the palomino.

Miles opts to leave the one that looks like it wants to eat him. He paces a bit further in and… OK, the black one seems all right… Wandering over, he raises his hand to rub the horse's nose, trying to copy what Ollie was doing before.

Jeremy looks clueless. They all look more or less the same, if… oh. There. He sees the biggest one now. It's grey and splotchy and looks kind of like Shadowfax's illegitimate brother. He walks over and points at it. "That one?" he asks.

Bass meanwhile, is having more difficulty. He looks at a brown one but it looks back at him funny. And then one that looks like it should be in a circus with a frilly hat on. And one that farts at him. He's beginning to despair when he sees… the horse. The perfect horse. Ignoring everyone, he walks slowly up to it. The horse stares at him. Bass stares back. The horse stares some more. They stay like this for a long time. Bass tilts his head to one side, and the horse does too. And he knows he's found the right one. It's a little smaller than the grey one and the black one, but he doesn't care. It looks like it's made out of chrome or something, shinier silver in the middle and black tips. He continues to stare at the horse, which continues to stare back. He doesn't even think he might upset it, because he knows it's His Horse.

"All right," Ollie says, "let's get the ones you want out of the paddock first. They should all have reins so you can just lead them out."

He glances over and sees that Jeremy is just sort of standing, and doesn't seem to have actually gone near his horse yet. "You want a little help, there?" he offers, not unkindly.

"Uhm. Maybe?" Jeremy says, trying not to look pathetic. "How do I know if it likes me?"

Bass walks up to His Horse. He realises it will need a name. "Come on," he says, quietly. He walks up and calmly takes the reins near the horse's head, and turns. The horse thinks about it for a moment, and then deigns to follow him. Bass walks his horse over to Miles, and laughs. "Oh boy. This is as bad as your car you realise. Do you think they come with go-faster stripes too?"

"Possibly not," Miles replies. "But maybe they should."

He looks up at the one he's chosen; big and black and sort of impressive, in a weird way. Not that this is really his area of expertise. Or anything close.

"They're gonna need names," he points out, whilst they wait for Ollie to help Jeremy extricate his chosen horse from the herd. "At least with cars you had… oh. Oh. Ferrari. I am so calling mine Ferrari."

Bass' eyebrows reach his hairline. "Ferrari," he repeats. "Why don't you call it 'Midlife Crisis' and be done with it."

Bass' horse starts sniffing Miles' hair. Which makes Bass smile. "Fine. I'm calling mine Lamborghini."

"Because 'Midlife Crisis' is a dumb name for a horse," Miles replies, and then he collapses into laughter when Bass speaks again. "Lamborghini!" he repeats. "That is the most ridiculous name for a horse I've ever heard!" He pauses. "…You have to go with that, I love it."

Bass puts his hands on Lamborghini's ears. "You will hurt his feelings," Bass says. "Stop laughing at my horse, Black Beauty."

Jeremy meanwhile has finally been convinced to lead his own horse out. It towers over him. "Uhm. In that case I'm calling mine Prius," he says.

Miles stares at him for about five seconds and then collapses into laughter all over again. "Prius?! Those hybrid things? Don't you want to pick something a little more… you know, _manly_?"

Ollie hits him, though not very hard because he doesn't dare. "Don't mock Prius," he says. "And since you're all insisting on giving the poor things ridiculous names… I'm calling mine Audi. But only because it's what Tony Stark drives."

"Who the fuck is Tony Stark?" Bass asks. "And all your names suck. Lambo has the best name. Don't you, boy?" he says, patting the horse on the neck.

"Who is Tony Stark?" Jeremy repeats, sounding horrified. "He's Iron Man!"

"And… who the fuck is Iron Man?" Bass asks, rolling his eyes.

"…You poor boy," Ollie says, patting Bass on the shoulder. "You really have led a very secluded life, haven't you?"

Bass winces, because Ollie is touching somewhere which is sore. But he puts a brave (if pale) face on it.

Behind them, Ferrari gives Lamborghini a look, nudging at the paler horse with his nose.

"…Also there's something you need to know," Ollie goes on, before they descend into another round of Scare The Marines With Geekery. "Bass… that horse may be tall, but she's a girl."

Bass glares at Ollie. And then he stares his horse in the face. "Are you?" he asks. The horse whickers at him, so he bends down to look. "Fuck, you are." He also looks over to Miles' horse. "And Miles, you need to keep that one away from Lambo. RIGHT now." He moves to stand between the two horses protectively.

"Hey, my horse has nothing but good intentions towards yours!" Miles insists, though he's looking at Ferrari a little dubiously. "Wait. Mine's a guy, right?"

"Oh yeah," Ollie replies. "Stallion, too. Still… uhm… functional. So Bass has a point… you should probably watch those two. Or you'll end up with more."

"YOU KEEP YOUR FILTHY HORSE OFF MINE, MILES," Bass says, staring at Ferrari accusingly. Then he goes back to his own horse and pats her on the nose. "It's okay. I don't mind that you're a girl. You can still kick his ass. I can tell. You're a badass horse aren't you?"

Jeremy looks confused why Bass is baby-talking his horse. "Uhm. Did I get a girl or a guy?" he asks. "I don't really wanna look at horse junk."

"Yours is a guy too," Ollie tells him. "But he's a gelding. That means he won't be fathering any foals. All the males here are geldings, apart from… uhm… Ferrari."

Miles shakes his head. Trust him to pick the only intact one.

Bass laughs at Miles. "Midlife. Crisis." Lambo whickers too, seemingly also amused.

"So. How do I get on it?" Jeremy asks, looking at Prius with some scepticism.

"Like this," Ollie says, putting a foot up into the stirrup and swinging up on to Audi's back with ease. "Remember to keep a firm hold on the saddle. And don't be afraid of it, or you'll fall on your damn fool ass."

"You can go first, Rambo," Bass tells Jeremy.

"Rambo didn't ride horses," Jeremy says, narrowing his eyes.

Bass sighs. "Fine. Conan. Or… I don't know. Lone Ranger or some shit. Just get on the damn hybrid."

Jeremy looks to Miles for moral support.

"…Get on the horse, Jeremy. You'll be fine."

Jeremy sighs. Neither of them is being nice. Okay. Fine.

He grabs the saddle, puts his foot in and tries to go up. The horse steps to the side, and he comes back down on his foot. At least not his ass. "Bad Prius." A deep breath and what did they say about getting back into the saddle? He closes his eyes and tries again, harder.

When he opens them he's sitting on the horse with his knees pressed in tight and holding on for dear life. But he's on. He lets out a very unmanly whoopee.

Bass rolls his eyes. And not to be outmanned, he does the same. Except that hurts a) his shoulder and b) his ass. So he looks a bit faint when he gets up, but thankfully Lambo doesn't object half as much. "Piece of cake," he says, a little high pitched. And puts his feet in the stirrups so he can stop sitting on his poor ass.

Miles catches this reaction but doesn't comment on it, beyond a fleeting flicker of pleasure in his eyes. Then he's turning to his own horse – Ferrari – and giving it a dubious look.

"How hard can it be?" he mutters to himself, grips the saddle and swings up. He uses slightly more force than is necessary and has to hold on rather tightly to stop himself over-balancing, but after a second he's stopped wobbling and settles into place. "…Piece of cake," he echoes.

Ollie applauds from atop Audi, mostly graciously. "Very good," he says, obviously completely at ease in the saddle. "And none of you fell on your asses!"

"If the horse moves, that might change," Jeremy points out. He's sitting like he's frightened to breathe. "Because it's already moving and we're not even walking."

"You did realise your horse would have to breathe, right, Jeremy?" Bass asks. "It's not a fucking robot."

"Maybe a robot horse would be better!"

"Well it wouldn't fucking work," Bass snaps back, shaking his head. "Okay. So now we're sat on them. What do we do next?"

Ollie shakes his head. It's clearly going to be a long morning. A _very_ long morning.

"Well, it's like everything in life, Bass – you have to learn to walk before you can run. So watch closely…"

…A very long morning.

***

It's late afternoon before Ollie finally says that they're ready to be let out into the world. Several hours' worth of intensive training have certainly helped, but he knows the best way for the three men to learn to ride now is to _ride_. Like driving a car, but with different suspension.

…oh, they're rubbing off on him already if he's started thinking like this.

Miles wants to get back on the road before evening sets in, so the now-four of them make ready to leave. With Ollie's help, they pack their recently-acquired supplies onto their horses – and, indeed, they have so much extra that Ollie suggests they take a fifth horse, just to carry things.

Ollie isn't sure whether it's Miles or Bass who ends up calling the horse – a dark chestnut – Humvee, but both of them seem unnecessarily amused by it. Resigned to apparently being the Sensible One, Ollie helps them pack Humvee with the rest of their supplies.

Miles, meanwhile, calls together some of the townsfolk. He thanks them for their hospitality, and then tells them they need to evacuate Allentown. Whoever this Franklin guy is, when he finds out about his men… he's not going to be happy.

But the townspeople don't want to go. Miles remonstrates with them for at least a quarter-hour before, resigned, he shakes his head, wishes them good luck, and walks away.

What other choice does he have?

Bass is standing staring at Lambo when Miles and Ollie give up. Lambo is ignoring him, and sniffing anything in reach. Like Humvee's packs. So Bass tugs her head away. And then she does it again. "Stop that," he tells her. "You already ate. You can eat more later."

Lambo snorts, and decides to sniff at Prius. Mainly because they've put Prius and Audi between her and Ferrari.

"So… no joy?" Jeremy asks, when he sees Miles and Ollie coming back looking pissed off. "After all you did?"

Miles shakes his head. "No," he says. "I tried and I tried. I told them Franklin will burn this place to the ground when he finds out what happened. Told them that everything they went through will have been for nothing. But… they want to take the risk. They think the bandits won't come back and will just go pick on someone else. They said… they wouldn't be scared out of their homes by bullies."

He looks back at the town. Such a lovely little place. The very picture of what makes small-town America so appealing.

"…I can understand that," Miles goes on. "But… sometimes you have to put your family before your pride. You have to focus on what matters the _most_. But they won't. They won't, and it will get them all killed."

And there's nothing I can do about it. No way to save them. He sighs, heavily.

"…You did your best," Ollie points out, softly. "And… you're saving me. So that's something."

Miles puts a hand on his shoulder and Ollie jumps just slightly at the contact. "Yeah," Miles agrees. "Well. We should get going. I want to be well away from the town before we make camp."

Just in case.

Bass looks like he's going to say something more… but… no. He stops. He glances back at the town sadly. It wasn't a bad place. He's going to have some fucking wonderful memories. But he knows they can't stay… so he rubs his horse's neck. And mounts her again. A little smoother but still as painful.

"At least we'll be moving faster, now," he says, trying to cheer Miles up.

Jeremy sighs. Now he has to get up on the damn thing again. He tries staring it down to convince it to behave… and gets back up. "Maybe they are right. Maybe they won't be horribly massacred."

"Jeremy… I wish I had your optimism," Bass says. "But I've seen war. And I've seen… people. And people aren't anywhere near as nice as you wish they were." He walks his horse over to bump Prius. "But we won't have to find out. We're leaving."

Jeremy doesn't like Bass' tone. He's only just encountered death. Sure Miles killed those two who were beating him up, but at the time he'd been curled into a tiny ball trying to look small and unimportant. And it hadn't really sunk in. Not like it did here. And considering the savagery and selfishness he's already seen… Bass thinks there is worse? He starts to wonder what. And wish he hadn't.

"Right," Miles agrees, tone still a little heavy. "We still have a long way to go. And… it will be nice not to have to walk all the time…"

He turns Ferrari towards the road. Already feeling much more confident about this whole riding thing. It's just like driving a car. Except completely different.

"I want to make it to another forest if we can," he says, as they set off. "Safer to camp there."

"Do you know the area well?" Bass asks Ollie. "It's best to be close enough to fresh water, but it's not essential."

"Uhm… not very well," Ollie admits. "I haven't been living here all that long. I explored a bit and I know there is a river further north, so if we're heading that way we should run into it in an hour or so? Maybe two? But I didn't really go much further than that…"

"We'll find it," Miles says, sounding a little better now.

Jeremy decides to stop thinking about death. And start thinking about how glad he is they're all together. He's been learning bits of 'fieldcraft' or whatever they call it, but still not enough to survive on his own. "They've been teaching me. I can put up a tent, start a fire, and gut a rabbit now."

"There's ways to tell where water likely is," Bass tells Ollie. "So 'north' is good enough for us. Don't worry. We've trained to survive in a lot worse conditions, huh Miles?"

"Hell yes," Miles agrees. "This is a walk in the park compared to Iraq. Or Afghanistan… you remember the night we spent in that cave, on the edge of Helmand province? Got cut off from the rest of our platoon by insurgent gunfire and had to take shelter. Do you know how fucking cold Afghanistan gets in the winter, at night? People used to look at the pictures on TV and see a desert – and a lot of it is – but trust me, there's a lot more to it than that."

Which is a very roundabout way of saying, we know what we're doing and you'll be all right with us.

But _oh_ , his eyes flicker at the memory. Though there is absolutely no way he's going to be elaborating on why.

Bass goes an interesting colour when that particular memory takes a walk in the park with his new-found homosexual libido and supplies interesting ways to cope with the cold of the desert at night. Including raiding ration packs for lubricants. "Yeah," he chokes out. "Really. Cold."

Jogging the hitherto unexplored undertones to that memory may also have been part of Miles' plan. He catches Bass' tone and looks pleased with himself, though doesn't comment. The edge to Bass' voice is more than enough for the moment.

"…I see," Ollie manages, looking a little nervous. "Well… let's hope we have a better time of it here…"

"I've done some camping," he adds, glancing over at Jeremy, trying to make the conversation a little less weird. "My family… we used to go out on trips sometimes. My Dad liked to fish. He said it was living up to his name." He laughs, just a little. "Taught me a thing or two. So hopefully I can help out with the survival thing."

"Fish!" Jeremy exclaims. "Cool! We haven't had fish. It's just been rabbit and sometimes bigger animals and some eggs and fruit and stuff. As well as things we scavenge. We should totally try to get a fishing rod. I'm sure I can cook it. If you keep Bass away."

"Fuck off," Bass mumbles, sotto voce.

"Is Bass not allowed to cook?" Ollie asks, with a grin. "But, yes, if we can find or fashion some kind of rod, I can have a go at catching you something." He gives a little seated bow. "Living up to my name."

"Bass nearly killed us once with soup and five times with toast and once with a tin opener," Jeremy explains. "I think maybe they were just trying to prove that I had to do all the cooking so I came to the conclusion myself and didn't feel like I was pressured into it… or maybe Bass is just too much of a sado-mas…" he trails off, glancing from one to the other. "…Bass does other things instead."

"Fuck off! It was one time with soup and the toast doesn't count because it was the bread not me! Do you want teaching how to survive? Because step one is stop pissing off Sergeant Monroe!"

Especially when Sergeant Monroe is having difficulty concentrating. And the horse is hurting his ass. And his shoulder is stinging and all he wants to do is pretend he's off in a cave somewhere shoving his hands in Miles' fatigues.

Miles collapses into laughter. "The toast counts, Bass! Plus let's not forget what you did to Ollie's geraniums! And don't even get me started on what you questionably referred to as 'porridge' all winter…" But it's hard to be too unkind to the man, especially when Miles is _also_ thinking very bad thoughts and wondering if Ollie would fall for the blackberries line… "Just… let's say you have other talents and leave it at that."

Bass snarls, showing teeth. "Fuck you too, Miles. If you wanted a fucking gourmet chef maybe you should have gone to the commissary. I'm a crack shot with a sniper rifle, I can take anyone in a fist fight, I…" Fuck. His eyes close. 'I can handbrake turn a car so fast your hair turns grey'. Except he can't. Not any more. "…it always used to be enough."

Ollie watches this exchange with interest. He's still… trying to get a handle on the relationship these two have, and it isn't easy, because they change all the time. And that's… odd. "Well, I'm… glad you've taken over the cooking, then," he manages to say to Jeremy. "We should team up. And save the world from geranium toast."

Jeremy smiles at Ollie, but looks a bit… worried that Bass seems to be hurt by the joking. "Hey," he says. "Bass. You saved Ollie. I think a bit of food poisoning is secondary to something like that. I'd swap skills with you any day."

Bass refuses to be drawn into the discussion, patting his horse sulkily and wondering what the equivalent of a handbrake turn is. Making it stand up and do that noisy shit on two legs?

Which is… OK, more of a reaction than Miles was expecting. He rides in closer to Bass' left side, and reaches to put a gentle – gentle – hand on his shoulder. Knowing what that will do.

"Hey," he says, softly – soft enough that, if the other two can hear, they'll know they're not meant to listen. "It's OK. We're just messing about."

Maybe he ought to be more careful, given… what he and Bass did the previous night. He knows _he_ felt very weird for most of the day after it happened to _him_ … and that culminated in him drinking a third of a bottle of whisky, dragging Bass to bed and carving a matching M into the back of his shoulder. So. Probably understandable that Bass is a little wound, too.

Bass realises a little too late that he's acting like a loud-mouthed dick. And that they were only joking. And no one thinks he is useless. (Even though Jeremy can cook, and Ollie can fish and ride horses, and Miles can do everything he can do and more so he's sort of superfluous and only here to follow Miles around and only good for what he can do in bed and…)

The hand on his shoulder hurts. A lot. And for a minute only the pain filters through. But that's not fair. Not fair at all. And maybe it's just coming down from how good it's been. Maybe it's because they're leaving somewhere he liked behind. And taking on yet more little recruits, who he is going to have to learn to be nice to. And share Miles with. He swallows against the tightness in his throat.

"I don't have a… thing," he says, just as quietly. "I mean. Other than that. I don't… I'm nothing fucking special, Miles. I'm a fucking soldier, and there's no war. I don't even want to save people any more so what the fuck good am I?"

" _Bass_ ," Miles says, a hint of urgency in his tone, "I couldn't do this without you. You are my strength. You are what keeps me going." He moves the hand off Bass' shoulder to grip his hand, against Lamborgini's reins. "I know all of this is still so messed-up and I know it feels sort of like you don't have a place in the world anymore. But you do. _With me_. And so long as I have you, I can do this. _We_ can do this."

Bass considers this carefully. Looking down at Miles' hand. Miles… needs… him?

No. Surely it's the other way around? Miles has his family. If he lost Bass, he would still keep going. If Bass lost Miles…

"Okay," he says, but still sounds a little wary. "I think… I think I'm still… last night…" He glances over to the other two men. "Fuck. They're going to think I'm batshit psycho."

"I know," Miles tells him, softly. "I remember how it felt when it was me. It… will pass, I promise. I'm sorry. I… should have been more careful."

He tightens his hand over Bass'. "And I meant it. I couldn't do this without you. _Couldn't_. So don't you dare think anything less of yourself, because I think the fucking _world_ of you."

And though the words are just for them… there's a fierce, defensive pride in his tone. And a hell of a lot of honesty.

Reluctantly, Bass puts his free hand on Miles'. "Okay. I hope so. Because I feel… I felt fucking amazing and now I feel kind of…" Terrified. "…it's… a bit much. Not that I regret it. Fuck no. I'd do it again. I just… feel… weird."

He cants his head at the other two. "You could do it, with them. You'd get less amazing sex, but you'd make it. But… I'm glad you want me around. Even if I can't cook."

"It's OK," Miles says. "I think… it's some kind of come-down from… the way you felt last night. I'll… help you with it, when we make camp. But I mean it… I could _not_ do this without you. Maybe I could force myself the rest of the way, but it wouldn't be living. I'm taking you back to the rest of my family, Bass. So I've got you all together. So I've got _you_."

Bass grabs his hand tighter. "Yeah. When we make camp. I… I think I need it." He does. He needs Miles to put him back together again. Because currently he feels kind of broken and useless. And he doesn't like feeling broken and useless. And he doesn't get why feeling awesome then leads to this. It's fucked up. He never used to feel quite this bad. Not after sex. Maybe because the sex was never as good as it is with Miles?

"…come on. I need to stop sulking or some shit. Or I'm going to start crying on my fucking horse and then you won't have any way to hide it from them."

"…I could kiss your brains out?" Miles suggests, mostly just to make Bass smile. "That often cheers you up. And as for the rest… consider it a promise."

Bass makes a strangled noise. "Fuck, Miles. Don't. Because I'm two breaths away from 'dropping my bag' and having you help me find a contact lens and catching them up as it is. Fuck, but I just want you to hold me."

"I know," Miles says, with a flash of pleasure in his eyes at that reaction. "And I will. So now you have that to look forward to."

Bass leans over and whacks Miles on the shoulder. "Fuck you, Miles. Seriously. My ass is already fucking sore. And if I get turned on too much I'm not going to be held responsible for the flimsy-ass excuses I come up with for pinning you to a tree and sucking you until you have no choice but to fuck me." Which he says as quietly as he can.

"Hey, I was trying to be nice!" Miles whispers back. "And now you're in for it. You just wait until later…"

Hopefully 'later' will be 'soon.' Because… well, it's a good job they're sitting down right now.

"You know I am weak," Bass protests. "So… fuck. Talk about something else. Quick. Before I tell Jeremy he's got a lesson in finding a camp spot. And to take hours."

When the other two move off on their own, Jeremy has the sense to pull Ollie a little further away. "Don't worry," he reassures him. "Bass isn't crazy." Not that he knows how to explain this to him. How do you explain it? "Hell. I'm still coming to terms with what the world is, now. And what I do in it. And I didn't even have anything in specific to lose, other than the internet and supermarket shopping."

Ollie looks at Jeremy. "I… OK," he says, carefully. "Is this… normal for them? I realise it might be, I just… haven't met a couple like them before."

"They tend to… be explosive, yeah," Jeremy says. "But it works for them. I think… it's just… how they fit together. But they do love one another and they aren't bad people. Bass just… can be high strung. And both of them can be pushy. But… er… I just give them space until they sort it out."

"…So I see," Ollie answers, watching the other two in something like surprise. "I take it they're like this a lot?"

"Sometimes. Not always. But. It comes and goes in… er. Waves. Us–" No. Jeremy is not going to talk about his theories on what they get up to. "You're gonna have to get used to it. Get used to a lot. If you're really sure about travelling with us. I hope you have earplugs."

"…Oh dear," Ollie says, looking nervous. "I did wonder if the other morning, when we snuck in to make them breakfast… I wondered if that was just because of the fighting the night before or…"

Or the way they usually are. Apparently that. Which is going to make this… interesting.

Jeremy bites his lip. "Uhm. No. They… they tried being… uhm. I mean they _were_ a bit worse but… fuck. No. They're loud and brash and not very polite. But at least you will have me to talk to?" He tries to smile winningly. "We can put our tent way, way away. Er. And I won't hit on you. So you're okay. And they won't because they seriously only have eyes for one another."

Ollie now looks more nervous. "I… er… get that you like guys, too," he says. "That was… pretty obvious after the whisky incident last night. So… uh… is it just guys? Or… girls as well?"

He tries to be tactful about asking, but worries it isn't coming across that way.

"Oh!" Jeremy says, realising he's been kind of a bit rude. "Er. Yeah. I'm gay. I don't like girls. I think the other two did like girls but since they – er – came out – they haven't really stopped for breath." And then… "Oh… oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like you were… uhm. Not nice. I just… I tend to go for men a bit older than you. Uhm. So. Yeah. You're safe with us. And no matter what you heard at school, gay guys are just like straight guys, and they don't go around forcing themselves on people just because they can. So. Yeah."

"I… oh… right… that's… that's good…" Ollie manages. He's gone a little pale and now looks nervous as all hell. "I… no, that's cool, I completely understand…"

"Uhm…" Jeremy tries. "I… fuck. Sorry. If it's any consolation, we can shop for someone for you while we look for someone for me. And I'm a good best friend." His smile goes self-deprecating. "The girl I dated before I came out said as much. So. Yeah. It'll be fine. And we like the same shit so you… well I hope you'll like being my friend…"

"I… er… thanks. I think," Ollie says. It really is hard to do anything but like Jeremy. He's just… too nice. "I… well, if you must know, I sort of like guys too, but I… haven't had one. Yet. So. So…" He gives Jeremy a little slap on the arm. "But you're _much_ too old for me, so there."

Jeremy laughs. "Ow. Okay. I'm not quite over the hill yet but… yeah." He beams widely. "Don't worry. I didn't either for a long time. Uhm. If you do want to ask questions though, you're welcome to, and I'll answer what I can. But… really? You'll be fine. Just find someone nice and the rest follows on. It's not like there's any rules on it. I mean – look at those two. Fucked up beyond compare and they couldn't be happier if you gave them a fucking… elephant."

Ollie laughs. "Thanks, I think. I'm glad you're here, too. Maybe you'll keep me vaguely sane. Sane-ish. Maybe." And then the rest filters through, and he stares. "…Wait, an elephant? What would they do with one of those? I… no, no, don't tell me, I'm young and impressionable… or something, I don't know…"

"I… just couldn't think what the hell else you'd give them," Jeremy says, sounding a little… worried. "Uhm. More guns? A bigger tent? It's not like most of the stuff even exits any more…"

"A small country somewhere?" Ollie suggests. "Yeah. I know what you mean. To be honest I'm not sure they'd notice anyway. They're very… uhm… focused…"

"We could get them an island, but I think they'd get bored. Eventually. And they'd probably want to get a bigger island. It… er… helps them get even more focussed if they… save people first…" Maybe some TMI, Jeremy. Seriously. Shut up.

Ollie shakes his head. "I swear those two could have their own show. It'd have to be on cable, though. 'Cause of their inability to say anything without tacking the word 'fuck' onto it."

Jeremy grins. "Yeah. You… probably will end up doing the same. I used to be such a nice boy til I met them." He winks. He was. Mostly.

"Really?" Ollie does not sound convinced. "And you've known them how long?"

"…two months. And I barely said fuck at all before. But now it's kind of like – Good fucking morning, how the fuck are you, where's the fucking kettle, those are my fucking boots, good fucking night I want to fucking sleep…"

Ollie collapses into giggles. "Oh, it's so true!" he agrees, smacking Jeremy on the arm again. "I worked that out within a few hours of knowing them. I guess it's a Marine thing? Or… maybe it's just them…"

The rest… he wisely opts not to comment on. Partly because of the content, and partly… because of the weird little edge to Jeremy's tone.

It's at this point that, just up ahead of them, Miles looks back with a bright little look in his eyes.

"Too fucking right it's a Marine thing," he says, deadpan.

"You'd curse too if you'd done what we did for a living," Bass points out. "All those guns and grenades and bombs and tanks. And parachutes. And fucking awful food." He puts a hand up before anyone comments. " _Not_ my food. Rations and mess hall. Miles will back me up on the fact I didn't exactly get fucking lessons in poaching eggs. Meals came in bags and you just made them go hot."

Jeremy looks a bit relieved that Bass looks less like he wants to murder him for joking. "Again I can only be glad I didn't sign up."

"You'd have been a shit Marine, Jeremy. No offence," Bass adds quickly. "You're too fucking nice."

" _Far_ too fucking nice," Ollie says, defensively. Feeling… like he owes Jeremy that much. "Some of us have… different talents. Takes all kinds to make a world."

And to make a… a four-man team. Or whatever they appear to have created. And Ollie is _still_ not D'Artagnan.

"…Something I really don't miss," Miles points out. "We may eat a lot of rabbit, but at least it tastes like food."

Especially when Jeremy cooks it. Though he's smart enough not to say this out loud this time.

"Yeah, if everyone was a soldier… the world would be a shitty-ass place," Bass says to Ollie. "But if there weren't enough of us… there'd be a lot less nice people like you and Jeremy around to make music and food and cars… and other stuff." Seriously. Stop obsessing over cars. Maybe it's because of the horses. He didn't miss them so much before.

"Well I am glad you were a Marine, Bass. Without people like you and Miles… well. America wouldn't have been what it was. So. Yeah." Jeremy shakes his head. "And even now… without people like you two who know how to survive and kill the rabbits in the first place? More people would be dead. Even if you won't be making any babies. That's still fine."

Bass looks a bit alarmed. "No, we won't be making babies. Other people make babies."

"Which is fine," Jeremy hurriedly says. "I'm not making any either. We can just be cool uncles."

"…You people are all very weird," Ollie says. "Very, very weird. But in a good way."

"True enough," Miles answers, giving Ollie an odd little look. "To all of it. But especially the part about not making babies."

Beneath him, Ferrari nudges at Lamborghini, so he decides it might be best to ride slightly further apart again. Just in case.

"Miles, I love you, honest to god, but even if I could, there is no fucking way I would have your kid. It would be fucked up if we were the parents. And plus – no." Bass shudders. "If the race needs to continue we'll just keep all the straight people safe."

"…you will be weird before long, too," Jeremy tells Ollie. "Although – seriously? A wakizashi? I mean I like anime as much as the next geek but dude, where's the naginata or the katana?"

Bass shakes his head. "Probably best Jeremy doesn't reproduce either. His kids would be just as fucked up."

Jeremy ignores him, and they carry on riding north.

***

It's getting dark by the time they stop to make camp. They put up the tents – Ollie noticing that Jeremy pitches his a good distance from the one belonging to Miles and Bass, and wonders (again) what he's let himself in for.

They talk a little over rabbit stew – made, thankfully, by Jeremy – and before long Miles starts suggesting that it might be sensible to turn in for the night.

There's something about the way he keeps looking at Bass, though. Ollie doesn't think the man is all that interested in sleep. But for the moment… Ollie has a slightly more pressing concern on his mind.

There are only two tents. One for Miles and Bass, and one for Jeremy. Which means… Ollie is going to have to share with him.

And therein lies the problem.

He hesitates for a long time, sitting just outside the tent and looking up at the stars. Wondering… what the fuck to do…

Jeremy meanwhile is making the tent as nice as he can. Being a bachelor and having a tent to himself has kind of spoiled him. He could put his shoes wherever he wanted! Okay they always went in the same place but it's the principle of the thing. So he puts the two sleeping bags out nice and neat. It's going to be a bit of a squeeze. He briefly – very briefly – wonders how the other two manage. But they are trained soldiers and… probably care less about personal space than he does.

He does notice Ollie is taking a while. So when he doesn't come in, he opens the flap and sees him sitting nearby.

"Not tired?" he asks.

"I… kind of…" Ollie manages.

How do you even begin to admit to… to…?

…fuck.

"I… oh fuck, no… I'm fine, really…"

Going to pieces over being asked if you're tired is not convincing. He realises this. He looks back at Jeremy; wide, green eyes obviously flooded with fear, in a way he hasn't shown since first meeting them three days ago.

"Hey… hey… it's okay." Jeremy pushes out of the tent, and crouches down on his haunches. A foot away from the younger man, so as not to seem threatening. Hands on his knees for balance. "You want to take a walk or something? I… I know they can be a bit daunting to listen to… and I know you barely know me either so you don't know I'm not gonna murder you in the night or something… which I totally am not!"

Jeremy closes his eyes and curses himself under his breath. "Okay. Pretend I didn't say that. Come on…" He pushes up, and offers Ollie his hand.

"I… fuck. Fuck, the swearing is contagious around you people…"

But Ollie knows he's just talking to fill the gap between the question and having to answer. "I… I know you're not going to murder me, I do, it's…"

Fuck. There's going to be no way he can keep _this_ a secret, but…

"…All right," he agrees, after a moment, taking Jeremy's hand to clamber up but stepping straight back once he's upright. "I… we should… there's something I…"

Fuck. Fuck. Stop going to pieces!

"…a walk would be good…"

"Come on. Let's get away from here. The further we are from the lovebirds the better you'll breathe," Jeremy suggests. He lets go as soon as Ollie is up, and turns to walk slowly away.

They walk in silence, out of the little clearing, deeper into the woods. It's dark, but the moon is full, so they can still see where they're going through the sparse tree-cover. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. I don't mind. But if you want to get something off your chest… I promise I am a good listener."

Ollie walks a little further, arms wrapped around himself, even though it isn't really cold. How are you supposed to do this?

"I… there is something I… but I don't know if… if…"

Pause. Deep breath. Try to ignore the sudden, thumping echo of your own heartbeat.

"…look. I need to tell you something, but I need you to promise me – _promise_ me – that you won't say a word. Not even to Miles or Bass. I know you've got this whole lifedebt-thing with them but… but… I need you to keep this to yourself."

There's no aggression in his eyes, though. Just a desperate, desperate plea.

"I'm not Chewbacca!" Jeremy protests. "Even if I am tall!" But he's just trying to make Ollie smile.

He puts his hand on his heart. "Ollie, I promise. Unless you're going to tell me you plan on murdering one or all of us, then anything you say to me is in complete confidence. I'll even say it in Wookiee if it makes you feel better."

"…No, no no no nothing like that!" Ollie insists, looking horror-struck. "You all saved me, I'm on your side completely, it's just… just…"

Deep breath. Fuck. Just do it.

"…Jeremy. I… I'm… I'magirl."

Jeremy stops walking, hand still on his heart.

"You're… you're… not a dude?"

"…No. I…"

Ollie takes a few steps back, looking suddenly worried.

"…I'm a girl," _she_ says, again, trying to stay calm and not doing very well at all. "I… I've been living as a boy for… for a couple of months… I… even started thinking of myself as… as… but I'm not, not really, and if I'm around you you're going to figure it out and then… then…"

Her voice has gone far more high-pitched, and she looks like she's about to run for it. Or collapse.

"Whoa! Whoa… calm down…" Jeremy grabs her forearms gently, trying to get her to stop freaking out. "Let's just go through it one step at a time… okay?" He nods at her, waits for her to nod back.

"Okay. Step one. You're living as a boy? Fine. You don't want Bass and Miles to find out? Fine. I don't know why you're doing it but you must have your reasons. I swear to Grayskull I'm not going to say anything. There's… we're going to have to take precautions if you want that to happen… but it can be doable."

He pauses, biting his lip. "Why don't you want them to know? I don't think they're sexist or anything."

At first the contact makes Ollie freak out more, and she tries to pull away, but something about the look in Jeremy's eyes calms her a little. He's… easier to trust than most.

"I… no, no it's not that, I…"

Ollie bites her lip. "I don't think I can talk about it… not yet. I just… I have to live as a boy now. It's… safer. But I'm a girl really and I… if we're going to be sleeping in the same tent, I sort of had to tell you…"

"Well, when you didn't pee standing up and you ran off every time we had to have a wash I think I would have eventually worked it out," Jeremy says, gripping her a little tighter but then letting go.

"Okay. You have your reasons. I'll respect them. I will help you if you decide it's time to tell them, though. Because I don't think anything bad would happen if you did." Now he smiles. "And hey. Now you can really worry I'm not after your ass. And… thanks. For trusting me with this. I won't let you down."

"I know… I just… I can't, not yet…" Ollie manages, staring at him with those wide eyes, imploring him to understand.

She wraps her arms around herself when Jeremy lets go, but snaps after a moment and grabs his hand again. "Thanks. I… I haven't ever told anyone and it… it helps. I…"

Deep breath. "…Olivia. My name's Olivia. But my parents always called me Ollie so I just thought… why the hell not? It's still me."

Jeremy holds his – no, her – hand back, his smile genuine and open. "It's lovely to meet you Olivia. Even if you don't want to be Olivia very often."

He tilts his head in thought. "I guess you want to be Ollie all the time, in case I slip up? Or… or do you think of yourself as male? I mean… I come from quite a progressive background so I've met some people who were going through changes or even just flipped when they felt like it. So. Just tell me how to be and I will do my damndest to do it."

Then he laughs. "And here I was, when those two found me, I thought I'd be the one with the big secret because I was gay. It's… sort of refreshing being 'normal'!"

Ollie laughs just a little. It's hard not to relax, at least slightly, around Jeremy. He's so… disarming.

"I… don't even know anymore. Just… just think of me as Ollie. I've always been Ollie so it's… that part isn't weird for me. Try… try to think of me as a boy. Except… remember that I'm not."

Oh dear. She really isn't doing very well with this.

"We make quite a bunch, don't we?" she says, wryly.

He wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in tight. "Yep. The gay geek, the girl-boy-geek, and the two randy, violent, potty-mouthed soldiers. More interesting than the four musketeers."

"…And I am _still_ not D'Artagnan," Ollie insists, though she's grinning now, and she lets Jeremy pull her into a hug. With pretty much anyone else… she doesn't think she could do that. But… she can with him. Maybe it's because he's just about the most unthreatening person in the world. Or maybe… it's the fact that he wasn't even interested in her when he thought she was a guy. Because that… that makes it easier.

Jeremy's step falters when he thinks of something. "Oh. Uhm. Just so you know. Whilst I am totally cool with you being a girl-bro, and will cover for you at every available opportunity… I am as easily squicked out by… er… thing. You know. Auntie or whatever. As any straight guy." He tries to look apologetic.

Ollie just laughs. "I promise to spare you the terrifying details. I grew up with an older brother. I know the drill."

"Oh, good." Jeremy really does sound relieved. "And you're quite welcome to tell me what guys you had crushes on. Because I probably did, too. Well. Assuming the ones I had a thing for weren't too old for you…"

It's getting a bit chillier, now. And dark. He peers over his shoulder, wondering if they should go back.

Ollie actually giggles. "This totally means I have a gay best friend now," she says, trying to make it sound light, but actually meaning 'thank fuck you understand and aren't being weird about it, even though it _is_ very weird.'

She catches Jeremy looking in the direction of the camp and nods. "We should go back. I think maybe I'm ready to sleep at last."

"Yep. I'm good at that." Too good, he thinks, but doesn't want to bring her down with his own baggage.

"I would say 'maybe they are done' but I doubt it. Oh. And a word to the wise… don't go to wake them up in the morning unless you have to. They wander around topless if they even bother to get out of the tent. And Bass is even less of a morning person than Miles is."

"…I can believe that," Ollie says, with a little grin. "The mornings part. Not the topless part. Although… OK, maybe that, too."

They start walking back towards the clearing where they've pitched camp, with just the moonlight to guide them since the fire has been put out. It's… oddly quiet. Deceptively, one might say.

Jeremy ducks to hold open the flap, waving Ollie inside. "And if you want to get them to like you… coffee. Coffee and they're anyone's."

In the distance, there's a muffled 'FUCKMILESFUCKOHSHITShhhhhhhh…' and then just some vague movement noises. And then another – more muffled – yell.

Jeremy sniggers. "They're trying to be polite."

Ollie's eyes go wide again. "…That's _polite_?" she says, incredulous and perhaps a little nervous once more. "Do they always sound that… uh… _pained_?"

She climbs quickly into the tent, moving over to what is clearly her side and flopping down on the bedroll.

Jeremy glances over at their tent. "Uhm. I hate to break it to you. They're not exactly… hearts and bunnies. You… uhm. You saw… you saw Miles' shoulder?" He's going a bit pink now. "Yeah. They. Uhm. Play rough. It…"

Wow this is hard. "…it's not… all that unusual. Especially. Uhm. Well. Gay people. Not all gay people but… uhm. A lot."

Fuck. Please tell him he's not going to have to give the BDSM birds and the bees to a teenager? "…youknowhandcuffsandshit?"

Ollie stares. Goes a little pale. Looks in the direction of the other tent and then back at Jeremy. "…His shoulder? Wait, that was…?!"

She stares some more. Before the Blackout… she'd read about this sort of thing. On the internet. Mostly because of one of the communities she used to belong to, but… reading about it and _meeting_ it are two _very_ different things.

Off in the distance, there's a scuffling noise, a yelp, several soft "fuck"s and then a sudden shout of, "…FUCK, BASS, HARDER!"

"I… uhm… I've heard about it, but obviously haven't ever…"

A flash of memory. Just for a second. And then… a deep breath. Only thinking about the here and now.

It's hard to say who is more embarrassed. "Well," Jeremy manages, "I sort of. I did. But. Not… to this… level and… er. Yeah. It… it will make sense. In time. Really. Even if you… even if you're not that way inclined it will make… more sense. But you should… er. Ask them. If you want more detail. Sort of… not my place to say."

Maybe he's already said too much. Hard not to, though, when they're clearly traumatising the poor kid.

"…could we maybe talk about something less embarrassing?" Jeremy asks. Because. He wants to stop thinking about it. Soon. Really soon. He tugs at his collar. Fuck but it's hot when there's two in a tent.

"…That might be for the best," Ollie nigh-on squeaks. "We can be the sane ones. I've always wanted to have a try at being the sane one. I was always the quirky one with the dubious browser history."

She pulls off her jacket and shoes and climbs quickly into her sleeping bag. Feels… safer, like this. Plus she's tired, even if she's not sure how she's actually going to sleep.

"I bet you wrote fanfiction," Jeremy says, accusingly. "Probably AUs or stuff with swords in."

He takes the cue, though, and undresses himself too. He pulls his shirt off as well, but has the decency to leave his trousers on. And he's in his sleeping bag so fast it could hardly be considered gratuitous.

"…Well it was either that or carry on with my angsty teenage poetry," Ollie replies, with a little grin. "Which just wasn't a good idea. It was very bad poetry."

She settles down more. Off in the distance there's another yell and a thud, though no more obvious words, and it doesn't make her jump so much this time.

Jeremy laughs loudly. "Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh but… poetry! Hahaha. Okay. I never wrote any but I did doodle stupid sketches in my math book when I should have been paying attention. Mostly cars."

The more dull noises, Jeremy ignores altogether.

"Shush!" Ollie says, looking fake-hurt. "I needed an outlet for my pain! Or some crap like that! Everyone has to be fifteen once!"

Thankfully only once.

"I'm not mocking you, I'm just amused. I bet you liked the English classes, too, didn't you?" He's trying so hard not to just giggle.

"Yeah, I liked English. Liked talking about all the books we got to read with other people who actually cared about that stuff. And History. I liked History too. Civil War, founding fathers… and all about the frontiersmen. Even if some of them did eat each other."

"…eat each other?" Jeremy repeats back, pulling his sleeping bag higher. "Uhm. Please tell me you don't have ideas…"

"Oh no, ew, no, it was really creepy," Ollie insists. "The later stuff was better. When they'd stopped needing to eat each other and just used to fight a lot."

"…oh. Good. I hope we can learn from the history and avoid all the bad crap like, I dunno… cannibalism…"

"…Let's hope so," Ollie agrees. "Anyway, why did you draw cars? Sometimes I used to draw little swords. And horses. Always liked horses."

"Uhm, because it's already bad enough to be drawing shit. When you're a boy. I doodled swords but I was no good at drawing dragons and shit, so I decided it was manly enough to draw cars, spaceships and robots. I invented some pretty cool robots in my youth. Shame I just wasn't enough of a mad scientist to build them."

Ollie laughs. "Oh, you'd be an awesome mad scientist! Except you're too nice. Maybe you'd be the kind who is secretly waiting for someone to redeem him and give his freeze ray a real chance in the world and… _totally did not write that_ , shut up, shut up!"

Jeremy grabs some rolled-up clean socks and throws them at Ollie's head. "I would be a good mad scientist! Not a bad one! I would be Doc Brown! And I look nothing like him! And I don't sing half as good!"

Ollie ducks and laughs again. "Just so long as I don't have to be Marty, because… wait, you can sing?"

Jeremy goes pink again. "Uhm. A bit. Not well. And you'd make a great Marty. He was like twenty years older than he was playing so you can do it justice by not even being a boy!"

"…No way can I make my hair go like that!" Ollie laughs. "But, seriously, I am going to make it my life's mission to get you to sing for me. Maybe I just need to get hold of some of that godawful whisky Miles is so fond of…"

"Noooo," Jeremy protests. "No! Seriously. They mock me enough as it is for being camp and cooking. Can you imagine what they'd do if they heard me sing? Plus then you'll get them singing marching songs again and really – even if you weren't a girl they would be inappropriate. Hell. They're inappropriate for me to listen to! You will never be able to think about Yogi Bear again!"

Ollie shudders. "…I don't even want to know…" she says. "But even so. Life's mission. That. Eventually you will cave and join me in the Dark Side. Or the Musical Side. One of those…"

She blinks at him sleepily. "…And… ah… thanks. For being so understanding. And. You know. All that stuff."

He leans over and ruffles her hair. "Don't sweat it, kiddo. You're one of us, now. And we look out for one another."

In the distance, as if in agreement, there's a high howl, another crash, and some hysterical laughter. And through the noise it's clear something involving a canteen of cold water, by the shrieking and accusations.

"…yeah," Jeremy says, "Chicago or bust."

"Deal," Ollie says. "You, me, and those two maniacs. The Four Horsepeople of the Blackout."

Jeremy drops back, staring at the roof of the tent. "War, Death, Cook and Geek. Sounds… wonderful…"

"…We should so have our own show. If the power ever comes back."

"I just want to point out, though, if I'm singing, you're going to have to get me _wasted_ , and you're going to have to join in," Jeremy says. "Miles seems able to hold half a… rude… tune… Bass is a bit… less musically inclined. So if you promise you'll join in… maybe I can be convinced to sing YMCA. Or the Time Warp."

Ollie grins. "The Time Warp? Sweet Transvestite, please. Are you a gay man or not? And sure, I'll join in. I'm not really any good but I can probably hold a note if you lead. And if you give me some of that whisky as well. I don't even know how he drinks it. It tastes like death. And not in a fun way."

"Shush… you can't do Sweet Transvestite if you don't have high heels and stockings," Jeremy insists. "And… again. Never live it down." He shakes his head. College was a long time ago. "We can probably find you alcohol you would like. It's just a bit easier to transport spirits than beer or wine. But maybe you'd like vodka or something. And… mixers. Of some kind. Because that's how you should probably cut your teeth…"

Ollie laughs. And laughs. "Oh, God, the mental images! Ah, I'd pay in blood to see that! But… yeah. I suppose they would mock you mercilessly. Not that they have any right, the way they carry on…"

"Tell you what. One day – one day I will sing it. I doubt I'll ever get the outfit now… but when you least expect it… I'll make you shiver with antici–"

And smirking, he rolls over. "…night, Ollie."

"…Bastard!" Ollie hisses, faux-aghast. "You finish that word right now!"

Jeremy smirks. "Make me."

Ollie reaches over and pokes Jeremy in the back. Enough that he'll feel it, but she can't quite bring herself to be any meaner than that.

"…Fine. Just you wait. I shall have my revenge."

"Ow!" Jeremy says, but he's laughing. "I'm sure you will. Marty. Unless you're too chicken."

" _Jeremy!_ " Ollie says, still faux-aghast… and slightly louder than she meant to. "Don't you try to out-geek me!"

"I'm older," Jeremy points out. "I have more frame of reference. You're probably still convinced that Nine is the best doctor, because he has a leather coat."

"Shut up, that was a _nice_ coat!"

"Oh it was," he purrs. "But let's face it. You are going to forever be my padawan."

"…Fine," Ollie says, and pouts. "But if you die and come back to haunt me, I am calling the Ghostbusters."

"Bitch!" Jeremy retorts. "Okay… let's call it a truce and go to sleep before they get ideas about keeping us up all night?"

"That… might be sensible. They've been quiet for a while. It's sort of ominous…"

She settles down further in her sleeping bag, staring over at Jeremy one last time before letting her eyes drift shut.

"It's nice, actually," Jeremy says. And then he just listens to her breathing until he falls asleep.

***


	3. 2A - Citizen/Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter Two (shush, the chapters are too long to fit!), the real darkness of the Blackout sets in, and Miles, Bass, Jeremy and Ollie decide to do something about it. But they still have a long way to go before they reach Chicago, and the journey will change them in ways they can't imagine yet.
> 
> Warnings: As Chapter One, but with additional warnings for rape and graphic injury detail.
> 
> Contains: Lyrics to the folksong 'Dominion of the Sword' and 'He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother' by the Hollies.

_Citizen soldiers, holding the light for the ones that we guide from the dark of despair,_  
 _Standing on guard for the ones that we sheltered,_  
 _We'll always be ready, because we will always be there_.

[3 Doors Down – 'Citizen/Soldier']

***

**NINE MONTHS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

"Miles… No! Seriously… no…"

"Here we go again," Jeremy says to Ollie. "Come on, let's hang back while Daddy and Daddy fight…"

Bass – on Lambo – and Miles – on Ferrari – are leading the little caravan. The two horses ignoring their riders to whicker at one another almost as much as the two soldiers are bickering above them.

"How long have we been travelling now? How long? Seven months. And how long did you think it would take us to get to Chicago? Two? And where are we? Do you even know?"

"We're somewhere in Indiana," Miles replies. "South Indiana. Pretty much due-west of Cincinnati. And yes, I admit we have run into one or two slight hold-ups along the way, but we're still going, aren't we?"

"Miles, this is worse than that fucking film with the goblin and the magic ring," Bass complains. "If it's not getting lost, or snowed into a barn–" – and here he has the decency to blush a little – "…then it's going miles out of our way to avoid Franklin's men, or charging in anyway because you have survivor guilt about Allentown. You're the one who said we should be going to save your brother. Is he even going to _be_ there to save when we arrive? Not if we decide to play Magnificent Seven to every waif or stray, or save the cute little village of the week from the bad guy of the week. This isn't some spunky television show, Miles, it's real life."

Jeremy groans at Ollie. "If he calls a Hobbit a goblin one more time… and do you think he even knows the original Magnificent Seven ended up dead?"

"I don't think so," Ollie stage-whispers back. "I don't have the heart to tell him. It would break his little world."

Miles, meanwhile, is looking somewhat exasperated. "OK, yes, I admit we've had a few delays. Maybe some of them were rather long delays and maybe I should just have ignored everyone we met and ridden straight to Chicago without looking back. But… I couldn't. You know that, Bass. I couldn't just… abandon people when I knew we could help them."

He's glancing back at Jeremy a little as he says this. The poor man is so often the Case In Point, but at least he's a good one.

"I'm not saying we should have left Jeremy and Ollie behind, I'm saying you're a sucker for a sob story, and we're going to end up never finding your brother, which is what we set out to do in the first place. Miles… I'm not trying to be a bad guy. I'm just… I'm… think about the other side is all I'm saying. Because either you're gonna end up getting killed or we'll get to Chicago and… and it will be too late…"

And Bass will never forgive himself if that happens.

"…I know," Miles concedes, looking down for a moment. "And sometimes… sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder what's happening to Ben and his family… I just want to ride hell-for-leather until we get there. But I can't. I'm a Marine, Bass. We both are. We fought for this country and its people. And I… can't just walk away when I see them in need of help. We should never have left Allentown the way we did."

…And I'm trying to make up for that, is what he can't quite say.

"What were we going to do?" Bass asks, voice a little softer. "You said yourself we weren't ever going to stay there. You could have argued until you were blue in the face. But no one believes the worst is gonna happen. They all think you're Chicken Little until the wolf comes and eats them. Okay maybe I got that story mixed up but the point's the same. Everyone just loves to hide their head and hope for the best. You _did_ everything you could for them. We're just four guys. We're not an army. We can't go up against this maniac. And even if we could – who would follow us?"

"I know," Miles says, again. "I'm not saying we should go up against him. It just… It's hard, OK? I want to help, but…"

He pauses, all of a sudden, catching a scent on the wind – and the moment his mind processes it, he can feel his heart clench, not to mention his stomach lurch.

He looks up. Just a little way ahead of them is a small village. The same village they've been debating about going to – the village that started their discussion off in the first place. They've been able to see it in the distance for a while, but now they get close… Miles realises something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Bass is about to say something when he catches the smell too. It's not something he's experienced that often, but it's something that once you meet it, you never, ever forget. No matter how hard you try.

He wheels Lamborghini around. "You two should stay back," he tells Jeremy and Ollie.

"No… we're coming wherever you go," Jeremy insists. "Aren't we, Ollie?"

Ollie looks suddenly pale, but nods, clearly trying to keep a level expression. "Absolutely," she says.

"All right," Miles replies. "Come on. Be careful."

They ride in silence for a moment, up the road towards the village itself. There are no names on the signs – they've either been painted over, scratched off or, in at least one case, burned away. And when they get to the top of the little hill, level with the first few houses… their worst fears are confirmed.

The streets are filled with bodies. Some lie where they fell, and some have been dragged together into… heaps. The air is thick with the scent of death, all-penetrating and unmistakeable, blood on every surface.

Miles pulls Ferrari to a halt and climbs down, staring at the sight before him. He's done four overseas tours in war zones. Seen the aftermath of firefights, terrorist attacks, massacres. And this? This is undoubtedly the worst thing he's ever seen in his entire life.

It was a slaughter. That much is evident. The hands of a few men and women are still clutched around old, useless shotguns, rakes, or anything else they could find. But they lie where they fell, still clutching the makeshift weapons. And everyone was killed. That much is clear by the remains of men, women and… in one building, even through the kicked-open door, the bodies of all the youngest children of the little village.

Bass jumps down from his horse. It's not right to ride. He doesn't know where to look. Doesn't know what to look _for_. The bodies smell and are covered in flies because they have been left to rot for days on end. Whoever killed them didn't even have the decency to bury or burn them. From the occasional snapped necklace or bare feet, it's clear they've looted whatever they considered useful.

And then something catches his eyes. Something makes him look. He wishes he hadn't. Off to one side there's a group of dead women. By the way their skirts, dresses and trousers are ripped or missing… it's clear the men who did this took _anything_ they wanted.

Bass glances over to Jeremy and Ollie. "Go," he says. "Just go."

Jeremy rides his horse over to Ollie's, reaching out to touch her.

Ollie is staring. And staring. She's gone as white as snow, and feels as cold as the grave, right to her core. For several long, terrible, _terrible_ moments… all she can do is stare. Unable to process. Unable to breathe. And then… she just snaps, leaping off Audi's back and running out of the village as fast as she can possibly manage, crashing into the little group of trees just beyond the first wall. Catching herself on one, she finally throws up, then drags the back of her hand over her mouth, runs a little further on, drops down onto her knees behind a clump of bushes, and starts quietly sobbing.

Jeremy looks over to Miles and Bass and shakes his head. Then he jumps off _his_ horse and runs after Ollie. It's not hard to find her. And without thinking, he drops to his knees beside her, grabs her and pulls her back into his arms for a fierce hug.

Ollie is so deep in her own head that she doesn't even process that someone is coming after her – but the moment she feels arms going around her, she _shrieks_ in horror, hitting Jeremy as hard as she can and thrashing to try to… try to…

…and then she processes that it's him, and that she's… she's…

And she goes completely limp in his arms, sobbing and shaking and clutching onto him and whispering, "Don't tell them, don't tell them, please don't tell them," over and over.

Jeremy is shocked when she starts to fight him, because he really hadn't thought that far ahead. He should have. He should have realised that… that…

He clutches her even tighter, an arm around her, the other pulling her head against his chest protectively. He rocks her gently back and forth. Back and forth. "It's okay, it's okay, Ollie. I won't tell them. It's okay. You're safe. I've got you. You're safe. I won't let anyone hurt you…"

"Please," she begs, holding onto him like he's the only grounding in the world. "Please don't make me go back, please… I can't… I can't…"

Holding on even tighter. She's shaking so hard, her whole body aches with it, but she can't stop.

He strokes a hand through her short hair, over her back, trying to soothe her. Trying to make sure she feels safe. "I won't. Believe me, I won't. I wouldn't let you even if you wanted to. You're staying _right here_ with me, and I'll tell them I threw up and you had to hold my hair back, so you better back me up when I lie to them…"

He's trying to joke. Even if only a little.

"Just stay here with me. Stay here with me until it all goes away."

Ollie nods over and over, curling into him like he's the only warmth left in the world, her breathing starting to slow a little as she lets him hold her.

But it's going to be a while before she can move.

Back up in the village, Miles is still staring at the devastation. "…This was Franklin's men," he says, softly. "It must have been."

"Yes," Bass says. He can't manage to look away. Not really. Everywhere his eyes turn, some new small tragedy pulls at his heart. "Miles… we can't leave them like this. We… fuck. We have to burn it. All of it. How could they _leave_ it like this? Do they have no fucking sense of DECENCY? Even the fucking IRAQIS didn't leave…" Bass kicks at a ball, frustrated and angry and with nowhere to put it.

"We have to _burn HIM_."

"Too fucking right we do," Miles replies. Through the horror and the revulsion, his eyes have gone as black as night, and he looks utterly ready to kill someone. "We find that sick son of a fucking bitch, whoever the fuck he is, and we fucking _destroy_ him. We have to, Bass. Raiding towns is one thing. This? This is fucking _war crimes_ , and I won't have it. Not here. Not in _America_."

"I agree," Bass says, turning to face him at last. He looks pale. He looks… like he's only ever really looked once before. And that was by four unmarked graves. "Whatever it takes. We fucking wipe him off the face of the planet. I don't give a fuck. I honestly don't give a fuck. There are lines you do not cross and this?" He waves a hand at the destruction. The complete decimation. "They even wipe out the fucking _name_ of the place. So I say we do the same to him."

"Yes," Miles agrees, and he can feel it, the way this task, this goal, is sealed on them, there and then, in the blood of all these nameless people. "Yes. Come on. We need to burn this place down. We need to give these people at least that one shred of dignity. And then? Then we start work on finding Franklin. And we don't stop until he is _destroyed_."

The rage is blazing through him now, white-hot and ceaseless. But it isn't a hindrance, oh no. It is _fuel_ , for a deeper fire.

Bass goes to take Ferrari's reins. And then Prius', who is standing next to Audi looking confused. "Let me move the horses. You start laying the firewood," Bass says. It's not easy leading all five of them – even when Humvee is already used to following, tethered on. He takes them to the edge of the village and finds a young tree to pass a rope around and hitch them all in place.

Whilst Bass sees to the horses, Miles starts trying to lay kindling. It isn't easy, but he does his best – and the buildings look like they'll go up pretty easily once they get them going. And yes, it'll take a little while for the fire to really catch hold, but… it will have to be enough.

Better than this. Better than being left to rot in the streets.

By time Bass comes back, Miles has laid broken tree branches and smashed-up furniture everywhere – and in the midst of it all he's found a car hidden in a garage, with most of a full tank of petrol left in it. Siphoning the petrol _out_ is hardly pleasant, but once he gets it going he tries to fill as many containers as he can, knowing it will make a massive difference to have a proper accelerant.

Bass finds Miles in the middle of drawing all the fuel out. Under better circumstances, he'd find a way to make a dirty joke. But now is not the time, nor the place. Instead, he takes two of the canisters and starts pouring lines between the buildings, to make sure the fire spreads enough. He has to more or less hold his breath as he does it, and he tries not to look at the bodies. They were people, not long ago. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children. Lovers. Now they're just shells.

Eventually, he's as sure as he can be that it will all burn. It's been heavy work, but… it's over. He nods wordlessly at Miles, and walks to the edge of the village.

He's not even religious, but… he crosses himself anyway. "For whatever the fuck it's worth," he says, to all the dead bodies. "I hope to fuck you're in a better place now."

The very last of the petrol, Miles keeps in a glass bottle. Standing at the edge of the village, he sticks a rag into it and, with a couple of quick flicks of the flint and steel, lights it.

"Gotta be better than this," he says, and throws it.

And in a crash of glass and burst of light, the nameless village goes up in flames, vivid orange licking along the petrol lines and into all the flammable materials. Into the piles of bodies. Bright, cleansing fire, to obliterate the horrors of this place.

Bass doesn't care how fucking gay it makes him. He doesn't. He reaches out a hand to trail his fingers over the back of Miles'. Needing… needing something. He's not sure what.

He doesn't even think he can cry. It's like something's wrong inside of him. Very, very wrong. All he feels is the occasional flicker of rage, mingled with empty, mindless, heartless horror.

For a long moment… Miles can't move. He can't. And then, still lit by blazing orange, he turns and wordlessly wraps his arms around Bass.

There's nothing sexual about it. He isn't trying anything. He just… wants to offer the comfort that he can sense his lover needing. He holds on tight, pressed in close. Keeping him safe.

"We're going to destroy him, Bass," Miles says, in a low whisper. "I promise you. We are going to _destroy_ him."

Bass presses into his chest, grateful. It all feels like it's not real. Like it's some kind of sick joke. It can't be real. It's too horrible.

"Yes," he replies, just as softly. "No matter what it takes. No matter what. If we don't do it, who the fuck else will?" He holds on for a long, long moment. Until he worries Miles will be feeling awkward… and then he steps back. Wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. (Smoke. Just smoke.)

"We… should find the others."

"Yes," Miles agrees, heavily. "Come on. We need to make sure they're all right."

He suspects not. But really… what sane person would be, after this?

Keeping a hand on Bass, he leads the way down from the flames, in the direction that Ollie ran when he dashed off.

By the time they find them, Jeremy is sitting with Ollie between his legs. He has his arms wrapped around her, and is talking lowly into her ear. He glances up when they approach.

"…hi…" he says, not sure… not sure what else you say.

"We… we burned the whole place down," Bass says, numbly. "It's… it's all going to be okay now."

Ollie looks up. She's still as pale as anything, except for her eyes, which are red. But when Bass speaks… she nods.

"Yes. OK. I'm OK."

This is obviously not true, though Miles is tactful enough not to say so. "We should get out of here," he tells them. "I want to put as much distance between us and this place as possible."

Jeremy waits for Ollie to get up. He is more or less trapped behind her, anyway.

"We should ride until the light goes," Bass suggests. "We can cope with what supplies we have. They will last us another night." He stands and offers Ollie his hand.

Ollie looks a little surprised, but takes Bass' hand and scrambles up, staying close – as if he too will protect her. As if they all will.

"Sounds sensible to me," Miles agrees, looking over to where the horses are. "We can easily manage another night. We'll be fine."

Jeremy scrambles to his feet behind Ollie, brushing himself down. He looks quickly at Miles and Bass to make sure he's not giving anything away… but they both seem to think… well, he's not sure. But he's certain they don't suspect what's actually happened.

"Where did you put the horses?" Jeremy asks.

Bass tosses his head in the right direction. "Over there."

And – for once – he can see how vulnerable Ollie is feeling. So he puts an arm around his shoulder and gives him a quick squeeze. Reaching up to ruffle his hair. He's not sure what the fuck else to do, really, so when he's done he lets go and walks over to get the horses with Jeremy. Before it gets weirder or something.

"Come on," Miles says to Ollie, patting him on the shoulder. Also not entirely sure what to do, but knowing that being weird about it will probably make it worse. "The sooner we move, the sooner we can get out of here."

Ollie nods. "…OK," she manages. And then… heads over to the horses too, fighting not to think. Not to look at the orange flames licking through the nameless village.

Bass and Jeremy are already mounted by the time the other two arrive. And for once, even Lamborghini seems to be subdued. "This way," Bass says, as the other two saddle up. And without looking back over his shoulder, he spurs his grullo mare away from the destruction.

Miles and Ollie both saddle up quickly… and in a moment they're all away, riding briskly down from the village, back out into the world. It looks so familiar. So familiar and yet… changed forever.

Miles looks to Bass. Looks to Jeremy, and to Ollie. And he knows.

This is the day the war begins.

***

They ride for longer than usual that afternoon, stopping on the edge of another forest, close to a river, as night starts to set in. The conversation around the campfire is understandably subdued; lifeless and matter-of-fact.

Eventually… Miles can't stand it anymore. He can't. The images won't leave his mind; flickering behind his eyes every time he blinks, and further back… a slow, building rage, burning at the edge of his awareness but getting stronger and stronger.

He gets up, all of a sudden. "I need a minute," he says. "I'm just… going for a walk. To clear my head."

Which… catches all of them off-guard. Bass especially. He jumps like he's stung, because… because Miles never does this. He never goes off on his own. Not really. Not like this.

Not like… Bass sometimes has.

Bass looks up to find Jeremy is staring at him. Pale and worried. He throws a thin smile. "Okay, Miles."

Jeremy continues to stare at Bass. Refusing to say anything aloud. Not while Miles is in earshot. But his eyebrows are trying to merge with his hairline.

Bass gives a 'what the fuck?' look in response.

Ollie is staring too. She may only have been with them for a month, but she knows this is weird behaviour. Miles is not the sort to just… run off like that. When he has an issue… you tend to know about it. And she knows that, if nothing else, he always tells Bass. Always.

Miles, meanwhile, has stalked off into the darkness, away from the circle of light thrown out by the campfire. He doesn't say anything else, but from the way he's smacking through the bushes, he's not happy about something.

"Bass," Jeremy says, when he knows Miles is gone.

"Jeremy," Bass counters, a little grumpily.

"You do realise he wants you to go after him, right?"

Bass narrows his eyes. "He said he wanted to clear his head."

Jeremy grabs a small rock and throws it at him. "You're a fucking man all right. Go. He needs you. Stop being a dick about it."

"I am not!" Bass snaps back, looking over to Ollie. "Tell your boyfriend that Miles just wants some air or some shit!"

"He is _not_ my boyfriend!" Ollie exclaims, going vividly pink and studiously avoiding looking anywhere near Jeremy. "Now grow a pair and go sort out _your_ boyfriend before he deforests half the state!"

Then she goes even more pink and seems to shrink back down, looking away. It's the first… sort of normal thing she's said since they got to… that village.

"Well maybe he _should_ be because he's a fucking nice guy and shit and you're both massive geeks and you get turned on by space elves and shit!" Bass throws back. But he gets up. "Fine! I'm going! You two can continue to bond over werewolves and vampires and I'll go talk to the raging psychopath I…"

He glowers at them. "…I'm apparently responsible for." It's not what he was going to say. But he doesn't dwell on that. "Enjoy the stew. And if you hear screaming, please don't come to save me. I will quite happily be ripped limb from limb."

Jeremy shakes his head in dismay when Bass leaves. "One of these days we're going to have to tell them I don't bat for your team. Although they will probably have a nervous breakdown when they find out you have girl cooties."

"Shush!" Ollie hisses, and hits him – albeit very lightly. And then, "…You're probably right, though. About the nervous breakdown. Also you're way too old for me." A beat. "…I mean that in a nice way…"

"Oh, oh my pride," Jeremy says, trying to sound wounded. "Keep that up and you will be doing all the hunting to save my old knees…"

Meanwhile, Bass is following the trail of destruction to Miles. Admittedly it is less destruction than he worried about. Trampled grass and broken branches and a few places he's stomped. It is not hard to track him.

Eventually the trees open up to a small clearing. Miles is standing in the middle of it… just… standing.

"Hey," Bass calls out, quietly. "Room for another?"

Miles is staring up at the stars through the gap in the trees, arms wrapped around himself. He doesn't turn when Bass speaks, but does drop his head, looking down.

"…Yeah," he says, softly. "Sure."

Bass takes that as all the invitation he needs. He pads quietly closer.

Okay. This… this is not easy. They've been dating (can you call it that?) for six months and it's all been… it's all been more or less natural. A few faltering steps about new positions and shit aside. But this is all…

Fuck it, Bass. It's not like it was hard to comfort him before the Blackout. It came naturally then. It's just the same now. Except… even more important.

He reaches out to touch the small of his back. Just… resting his hand there.

"It's gonna be okay," he says.

Miles knows what Bass is trying to do, and on a rational level, he appreciates it very much. The trouble is… his mind is not operating on a rational level right now. It's resorted to something rather more primal.

"It isn't fucking OK, though," he replies. "That maniac… what his people did… _fuck_ , Bass, they murdered _everyone_! Not just the ones who could fight but all of them! Even the children! It's fucking _sick_ …"

The anger is building inside his head, burning through him so intensely that it hurts, and he has to move – has to – just to give it some outlet. He lunges at the nearest tree, smacking both hands into it, yelling in rage.

"What the fuck is wrong with this guy?!" he exclaims, desperate for an answer. For some sort of reason. Some way to explain the hell he's witnessed.

Bass is alarmed by the sudden violence, and he goes after Miles immediately, trying to grab his hands with his own, to prevent him hurting himself.

"Miles! Calm down… the man is a fucking… he's a monster. Which is why we're going to take him out. But worrying about what he already did won't stop it. You have to just… stop him from doing it _any more_."

"Take him out?" Miles repeats, letting Bass hold onto him and not – yet – trying to break free. "I'm not just going to take him out. I am going to _rip him to pieces_. And you know what else? I am going to fucking _enjoy it_."

He can't remember the last time he felt this angry. The last time he was so blinded by rage that he couldn't think. Could hardly breathe. There's anger… and then there's this. And it's overwhelming.

Bass pushes Miles' hands down – still holding them – and steps right in front of him.

"Okay. You're going to do that. But you're not going to do it like this. If you go into battle half-cocked and pissed off, you will get yourself and everyone else killed. You remember that, right?"

Miles glowers. He sure as fuck remembers. Couldn't ever forget that night in Baghdad, the first time around… the night he and Anderson and Lewings had gone off looking for trouble after one of their convoys had been hit, and ended up driving over a fucking IED. Anderson and Lewings had both been killed on the spot… but Miles had been in the back of the jeep, and got out with little more than a few cuts and bruises. At least until he made it back to base and Bass got hold of him.

Yeah. He remembers, all right.

"I know that," he hisses. "But it doesn't change the fact that… that… _fuck_!" Without even thinking, Miles grabs hold of Bass and slams him back against the nearest tree. "…I want. That psychopath. To _suffer_!"

Bass puts his hands up and doesn't fight being slammed. Not… not straight off. He can see the echoed pain in Miles' eyes. Can remember it, too.

"He will," Bass promises him. "He will, Miles. We'll make sure of that. I promise you with all I am, we'll make sure of that." His blue eyes are hurting, too. He saw the same things Miles did. He knows the same things Miles does. But it's not making his blood burn in quite the same way. It's… a sad, resigned hurt. At least, right now it is.

"…what do you need, Miles?" he asks. Trying to understand. Trying to… to know what to do. "Tell me. Tell me… because I don't know…"

Miles' eyes are still dark with… with something. It isn't so much bloodlust as _targeted_ bloodlust. He wants to do terrible, terrible things, but not to just anyone, and not having the right target is throwing everything out of balance.

"I need… I need… I need some outlet for all this… _fuck_!" He slams Bass back against the tree again, then looks suddenly horrified, letting go of him and turning away.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking this out on you."

Bass steps after him. A hand on his shoulder. His left. Fingers curling around.

"It's okay," he says, quietly. "It's okay. I can take it." He's not sure why he's offering. He just… knows Miles is wound. And they don't have any cars to gun down the interstate. They don't have any booze. They don't have any normal soldiers or lowlifes in a bar to provoke into a fistfight. All they have… is one another.

The touch to his shoulder is… sort of grounding. It isn't the first time Miles has noticed that, either – or the first time Bass has used it. Since Allentown… especially since the wound healed… all Bass has to do is touch Miles' shoulder and… well. It certainly gets his attention. And sometimes rather a lot more.

Right now… it makes Miles freeze to the spot. Makes his breath catch. Makes him… finally stop and think. For a long moment, he doesn't move, and then he turns, wrapping his arms around Bass and holding on tight.

"We have to do this. Have to make it right. But I can't do it without you."

Bass pulls Miles in firmly against his chest. A hand still on his shoulder, the other sliding up and into his hair. Breathing him in. Feeling his warmth, even in the slight chill of the night.

"We will," he promises, again. "We'll make it right. And I'll be right by your side. Watching your six. _Always_ , Miles. Fucking always. I'm never, ever going anywhere without you." Squeezing tighter, trying to push that promise into him.

"I know," Miles whispers. The anger is slowly bleeding out of him now, little by little, leaving him feeling washed-out and exhausted. "I know. It's just… fuck, Bass, how did this happen? There were little children! It makes me _sick_."

Please don't let me go. You're the only thing stopping me from losing it completely.

"It happened because all the good people died or ran away," Bass points out. "Without a leader… it's the wolves who win, Miles. It's the fucking wolves. So… someone has to become a wolf-hunter."

He pulls back from the hug, just a little. To look him in the eyes. "Come with me…"

Miles lets him pull back, but won't quite let go. He needs the grounding too badly. But at the request, he nods. "All right. All right."

Bass can sense the undercurrent, so he takes Miles by the hand. He tugs him along a short way, until they're by the river. Where he stops.

Then he drops down and finds the flattest stone he can. Takes Miles' hand and presses it in, curling his fingers around it.

"Make it bounce," he says. "And on each bounce… make a wish."

A game they played a long, long time ago. When they were different people. When they were children. Innocent of the horrors of war. It always used to cheer Bass up. Hoping for things. Focussing really hard. He used to think he could get anything he wanted if he just bounced a stone for long enough across the rippling surface of the water. And – to be fair – most of them came true. Except for the new bike.

Fucking bike.

Miles stares down at the stone, running his thumb over the top of it, tracing the curves of the rock. For a moment… he just stands, and then he nods, squaring up to the riverbank and flicking the stone out over the water.

It's been a long time… but it skips. One, two, three times, over the dark surface, before it sinks. And… he does make a wish. Three wishes, one for each bounce. Though he keeps those wishes to himself.

"…Thanks…" he says, softly, watching the ripples intersect on the surface of the slow-running river. "Sorry I was all… Well. Sorry."

"Don't mention it," Bass says, looking anywhere but at him. "I know I can be a… pain sometimes. So it's probably well past due to be your turn."

This brings back… a lot of memories. Mostly good. Two children who meant the world to one another. Secret clubs, Sharpie pens, bruised knees and toy swords. He bends and finds a stone for himself. His is slightly misshapen, but he figures it will still skim for him.

A deep breath, and then he sends his too. It bounces one extra and he smiles. Not because it's a competition, but because he never used to be any good at this. Maybe he's learned something. With age.

"We won't have kids," he says, as the ripples fade slowly, mingling with the natural curves of the water. "But you have a nephew, and a niece. And I sure as fuck don't want them growing up in this shitty-ass world. We're soldiers. You keep reminding me about that, and I keep forgetting. With no… with no orders, no… structure… it was easy to forget. But we're soldiers. Marines. And… maybe we're the only people capable of stopping this fucker. Just because no one's giving the orders, doesn't mean we shouldn't do it." He turns to face him. Resolution on every inch of his face. "You and me, Miles. Together. No matter what."

For pretty much the first time… Miles _had_ forgotten, and he feels a little guilty when Bass points it out to him. But the man is right: they're Marines. They can raise an army. They can raise an army and go after that fucking psychopath and…

He reaches to hold onto Bass again, still needing the grounding. Needing _him_. "Yes," he says. "Yes. We build up an army of our own. Enough to take him on. Enough to wipe all record of him out of existence. And maybe… maybe we calm the chaos, in the process. Just a little. Maybe we help people find a little certainty."

Bass' smile is lop-sided. "An army? Fuck. Who the fuck would follow us?" he asks. But even as he does… he glances back at the camp. Where two men have followed them. Already.

Maybe it's not such a fucked up idea after all. "Fucking hell, Miles. If you told me before the power went out that we'd even be… even be _considering_ being the sensible fucking adults? I'd have laughed and punched you. But I guess… I guess in this crazy, messed up now… we are the sensible ones. God save everyone."

Bass grabs Miles' arm, and tugs. He moves to sit down, waiting for Miles to follow him. Staring out at the water. It keeps going, even if society doesn't. And he finds the noise… soothing.

It really is quite a thing to be suggesting. Miles knows this. And yet… something about it seems… sort of possible. Maybe. Maybe if he wants it enough – and he wants it, oh fuck yes – then it might come true. Like the wishes, like the stone skipping over the water.

He drops down onto the ground beside Bass, resting his arms on his knees and looking out at the moonlit river.

"I know it sounds insane," he says. "But… we could try. From what we've seen, all of society has pretty much fallen down. If we stand up and tell people we can help them – help them protect themselves, their families – then they'd have every reason to follow us. We could… we could put back what the Blackout stole. Not the power, not that… but the structure. The… order. The certainty."

"The Marines?" Bass asks, even as he scoots close. So they are sitting thigh-to-thigh. "I mean. Don't get me wrong. I liked being a Marine. But I think we could do a better job about some of it, don't you?"

He rests his head against Miles' shoulder. "You know it won't be easy. You know people will die. You know… we could die…?"

"Damn right we can do a better job," Miles replies, putting an arm around him, a possessive edge creeping into his tone. "I'm not suggesting we re-form the Marines. But… we could make something new. Better. A… militia. That's what they called it in the Constitution. I remember Ben going on about it way back when… he got into a fight with Dad about how many guns we owned and _anyway_ , point is, the Second Amendment starts off by saying that, to protect a free state, you need a well-regulated militia. So… we make one of those."

The rest… he can't think about. Not now. Not yet.

Bass laughs. "Seriously, Miles? There's no fucking police, there's no _government_ , and you're using the Constitution? People are fucking murdering one another over coffee. I'm all for saving people, but that politics shit? I don't know anything about that. I just know guns. And killing."

Miles shrugs. "Mostly I just liked the name. But I think people smarter than us would probably like the undertones, too. Make them feel like there was some kind of… I don't know. Continuity."

He drops his head, looking down. "I need to do something. I can't just… sit back and watch whilst the world goes to hell."

Bass rocks into him, trying to shake him out of the melancholy. "Okay. Sure. Why not? It sounds better than 'army'. It's not like we're going to be fixing the politics. Just killing some lunatics and making shit safe. And I told you. I got your back. No matter what crazy-ass plan you have. Who is it that's always there to drag your sorry self out of the fire?"

He pushes at a branch with his boot. "Do you even have a plan, yet?"

"…Not exactly," Miles says. "I only just realised we could do it. I haven't… even begun to think how it might work."

He's thinking about it now, though. How they'd do it. Go into towns and villages – especially the ones threatened by Franklin's people – and… offer them something better. Is it even workable?

…It might just be.

"Okay," Bass replies. "Well. He has men and money on his side. We have… well. Experience. So I guess we're going to have to be guerrillas. We can't go from nothing to outright resistance because we need to build up supplies and support."

So many things to think about. His head is whirling from the possibilities. The risks. "Not to mention if he finds out about us we'll be public enemy number one. And he'll put a fucking bounty on our head like we're cowboys or something. Evil cowboys. Or should it be 'outlaws'?" It's so ridiculous. So very ridiculous.

"Exactly," Miles agrees. "We'd have to start out slow and small. Get people on our side without putting towns in danger. Guerrilla-style. Yeah. And once we've built it up… then we can start taking action. Can start hitting them where it hurts."

"And… yeah. Then we'll probably be public enemy number one. Except to the people who follow us. And if there's enough of them… we might be able to make some waves. If we spread the word about Franklin… then _he_ becomes the outlaw."

"We should check. With Jeremy and Ollie. They… they didn't sign up for a war, Miles. And Jeremy for one… I don't even think he fired a shot at Allentown. The man's not… he's not like that. And I'm not sure if it's right of us to make him like that."

Miles looks down again. "I know," he admits. "They… didn't join up with us to fight. They joined up with us so we could protect them. Maybe there'll be more people like that in the long run. We… would have to find a way to keep them safe."

Or… No. No. He can't say the other thing. It's odd, but… the thought of splitting up their little band… he really doesn't want it to happen. Even if it would be safer. He… doesn't.

"You know we can't guarantee their safety. Even more so if we're waging a fucking war, Miles. If… if they don't want to be part of it…" Bass hates himself for saying this. He does. It sounds so… dicky… "Then we should let them go."

Why does saying that hurt so much? He didn't even want Jeremy around. Same with Ollie. They've only known one another a few weeks or months but… it would kill him to say goodbye to either of them.

And it's strange. He's not felt like that about anyone other than Miles in the longest of times.

Miles nods. "We have to give them the choice. But… they can choose to stay, if they want to. I'm not turning anyone away who wants to be part of this. So long as they understand what they're signing up for…"

He finds himself… really, really hoping they stay. Even though it will put them in danger. It's hard to imagine doing this without them.

"Agreed," Bass says. "They're both adults. They… both saw what happened to that town. So if they choose to stay, then… it's not like they don't know." He shudders as fresh memories walk over his grave.

"I'm going to try to crack their cipher. It can't be much harder than that shit that used to be on cereal boxes. And I'm going to train Jeremy how to shoot from a distance in case that helps and it's the up close and personal stuff he doesn't like. And I'm going to teach Ollie how to do hand-to-hand…" Now he's started, there's going to be no stopping him.

"If you can crack it… it will be seriously useful," Miles agrees. "We'd be able to decode anything we intercept. Work out where his people were going to be in advance, without them knowing we knew. It would be… oh yes. Very useful. The rest, too. We'll need to train people because most of our potential recruits aren't exactly going to be former soldiers. So… we step it up with Jeremy, and Ollie too. Assuming they want to be part of this. We step it up and we make damn sure they can handle themselves in a difficult situation."

So they'll be safe.

"And we need to find some safe places," Bass points out. "Some places that his men won't find us in. Because we're gonna be on the run a lot. We're going to have to learn how to be invisible… which is harder with horses than…"

Bass looks back at the camp. The horses. A blessing, and a liability. But… he can't consider himself giving them up either. "…we need to keep the horses."

"Definitely," Miles agrees. "We'll have to find places that can shelter the lot of us. Horses included. We can't compete with Franklin's people without them. But… once we bring more people over to our cause, we can build up a support network. Places for us – and our recruits – to hide out."

Bass fights another shudder. It's like… like he's seeing a glimpse of something. Something big. A storm, coming. The world back open to anything. Like it was that night in the barn. When suddenly… the world was different.

It's big. So big. It's almost terrifying.

A war. A war! With two soldiers, and two civilians. And five horses. And a handful of guns. But he knows – if they don't end up dead – that it's going to be so, so much more than that.

"You're gonna make General after all."

Miles gives him an odd little look. "Yeah… I guess so. You too. Funny how these things work out."

He tightens his arm around Bass again, and grins. "Generals Monroe and Matheson. Has a nice ring to it. And here I was thinking it was impressive when we made Sergeant."

"I thought we were never gonna make Sergeant," Bass admits. "Not the way you were behaving. Like the time you stole that Delta's boxers and put them on a flag in the parade ground. The Lieutenant _knew_ it was you."

"Couldn't prove it, though, could he?" Miles replies, with a devilish little grin. "Besides. Paulson dared me, and there was no way I was backing down on a dare from that son of a bitch."

Then he attempts to look more sensible. "But I'm sensible and mature now. Definite General material." A beat. And then… "…Are you convinced?"

Bass shoves a hand down the back of Miles' pants. And yanks his boxers up over the waistband. "About as convinced as I am that I should be one," he says, still smiling.

Miles immediately grabs hold of him and flips him down onto the ground, pinning him lightly on his back, a flash of… something… in his eyes. "We never were proper officer material. Too interested in fighting, drinking and fucking. But… this is our brave new world. We can rebuild it the way we want."

Bass doesn't fight back. He doesn't want to. Not… not right now.

"We can be officers. Who fight, drink… and fuck." He holds his eyes. Wanting him to know… wanting him to know it isn't just fucking. He's said as much, a thousand times over. But he's struck by a sudden need to make him know. To make him… really know. "I would follow you to the end of the earth. My General."

Miles knows. Of course he knows. And there's a sudden warmth in his eyes that says as much.

"And I wouldn't go anywhere without you. My General."

He leans in to press a gentle kiss to Bass' lips, soft and careful. But he isn't trying anything. Not this time. Nothing beyond a kiss. And a little pinning. Which is… restrained, for him.

"Good. Because if you left me, you don't want to know the kinds of hell I would raise," Bass says. Only half-jokingly, when the kiss breaks. "I fucking mean it, though. You're the only fucking thing this world ever did right by me. I don't know what the fuck I did to deserve you. You've saved my life more times than I care to fucking think about. So you're stuck with me. Forever."

"I hope so. I don't know what I'd do without you. You're my whole fucking world, Bass… and you're all the good in it."

Miles moves so he's lying alongside Bass instead of mostly on top, and then curls up against him. Still just wanting the contact. The closeness. The reminder that there's always going to be something – someone – worth fighting for.

Bass reaches for him, making sure he touches him in as many places as he can. For once, he has no ulterior motive. And for all the sex – the regular, noisy, violent sex – is great… it's… nice. To know they can just do this, too. That it isn't just about his cock. It's about other things, too. Gay things. Like his heart.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" he says, as he stares up. A full moon, but behind that… all the stars. "And quiet. "Do you think they'll come looking for us if we don't go back before morning?"

"Probably," Miles replies. "Although, then again… they might decide it's safer to leave us to it."

Because. He's aware that sometimes… often… they are… less than quiet. And the other two won't be able to avoid noticing. And… it's sort of wrong, but they never seem to be able to stop doing it.

So. A night of them wandering off into the forest is probably a blessing for the other two.

"I did tell them if they heard screaming, just to let you murder me," Bass says helpfully. "So we can probably stay here. If you want to."

"Murder you?!" Miles repeats, looking faux-horrified. "Why would I murder you? You're far more valuable alive…"

"You did kind of storm off. Like you wanted to burn down the forest. I might not have been able to reason with you." Bass is not serious, but he's doing a damned good job of pretending he is.

"…I didn't mean to storm," Miles admits. "I wasn't angry with any of you. But… I did kinda want to burn down the forest. A little."

"It's okay. I don't mind. I mean, I'd prefer it if you didn't burn forests but if you gotta, then you gotta…" Bass squeezes him tighter. "But I'd much rather you took it out on me or something first."

"I probably won't _actually_ burn the forest down," Miles points out. "I just… thought about it. A bit. But even if I did… I wouldn't take it out on you. Unless you wanted a little hand-to-hand. I'm usually up for that."

He really doesn't mean this to sound as bad as it does.

"My hands are yours. For whatever you want with them." It's only gentle flirting, though. Trying to lighten the mood. He knows Miles has to pull him around often enough, so he's trying to return the favour. "So long as I can ride a horse the next day, then any time you need a punching bag… to fight back or not… you just say the word."

Miles grins just a little. "I'll keep that in mind," he says.

Then he curls in close again. "Maybe we should just stay here all night. I like the quiet. The moonlight. It… reminds me of better times."

"Yeah. They can cope a night without us. I mean, those… bandits… don't have any reason to still be in the area. And they have guns. We can take a night out. Give them some peace."

He strokes idly over Miles' arm. "Ollie got annoyed when I called Jeremy his boyfriend. But it wasn't in an 'I don't like guys' way, I don't think… so maybe they'll be fucking too, soon. Which is…" he laughs. "Kind of weird to even think about."

"…Do we really only attract the gay ones?" Miles wonders. "Is it because we're together and fucking now or… maybe the other way around..?" He laughs a little too. "Well. I know what you mean about those two, though. Possibly we should tell Jeremy that we didn't actually set out to find him a toyboy…"

It _is_ a weird thing to think. He wonders why.

"Ollie's legal. If… well. A little on the young side. But… I dunno, I think Jeremy's not… he doesn't seem like a player to me. He was awkward as hell when we found him. And he's so fucking ridiculously sweet and stereotypical that I honestly wonder if he got hit on the head as a kid. Or maybe he didn't, and we did. Because no one is that fucking nice without being evil or soft in the head…"

Bass shudders. "Okay. Let's stop thinking about that. Because it's kind of weird. And we'll just be happy for them and I'll not-make them a cake."

"So long as they're happy," Miles decides. "And safe. And… talking all that nerdy shit to each other. It's worse than when Ben used to go on about science stuff…"

He often talks about his brother, but Miles knows he's doing it rather more tonight. It's… hard not to think about him. To worry. After what they've seen today… oh yes. He worries, all right.

"Yeah, there was no surprise he married Rachel. She could talk nerd back at him. Like I can talk guns at you. Guns and horses. And tanks. And beer. And… and all those fucked up times we had. God. Did you even used to tell Ben? I mean… not all of it. He'd probably go grey if you told him all of it."

"I told him some of the safe bits," Miles answers. "But most of it? Fuck, no. He had a hard enough time when we were out on tour. Telling him what we were doing would probably have killed him. And as for the off-duty stuff… he'd only have disapproved. He was always the sensible one. Hard not to be when I'm the competition, though…"

"For what it's worth, you are so the better brother," Bass tells him. "No way would I fuck Ben."

And the thought is so ridiculous that he bursts into hysterical laughter. "Holy fuck, that would be like the stupidest thing in the world!"

Miles stares. And stares. And then collapses into similarly hysterical laughter, pressing his face against Bass' shoulder and shaking with amusement. "Oh fuck, where do you even get this shit from?!" he exclaims. "You and _Ben_? You'd break him in like five seconds. Plus the man is straight as a ruler. Don't get me wrong, he's my big brother and I love him, and I'd fucking _burn_ anyone who hurt him, but we're… of very different minds."

"I'm a good boyfriend!" Bass exclaims, hotly. "I would be gentle with him! I am nice and sweet and… oh fuck, who the fuck am I kidding?" He jumps on top of Miles, hands on his shoulders. One with the faint marks of his teeth, the other with the not-so-faint marks of his blade. "I'm not gentle. I'm not kind. I'm not even nice. I'm a fucking psycho. And it's only because I found you that I got to be who I really fucking am."

He drops down, pressing his forehead to Miles'. "So I hope you made the right decision picking me." Instead of, say… Rachel. "Because who the fuck else would let you be you?"

Miles lets Bass push him onto his back, lets him pin him down. His eyes flicker at the hands on his shoulders, at the way those touches send echoes through him, and suddenly he's fighting not to just… fight. Or… surrender.

" _Exactly_ ," he growls, but not unkindly. "You are a fucking psycho. _My_ fucking psycho. Don't you ever change."

"Believe me, I don't plan on it. I feel more alive now than I ever did… ever. Ever, Miles. I mean… fuck…"

He sinks down onto him, straddling him, arms wrapped around his torso. Head on his shoulder. "…everything else was just… treading water."

"I know," Miles whispers, wrapping both arms around him and stroking down his back. "I know. I don't know how I waited so long but… but I don't want to know. I couldn't live without you. So just… stay with me. Forever."

He holds on tighter. Needing that grounding.

"You better believe it. Even if you pick up a hundred people, horses, dogs, cats and fish. I'm gonna be right there, telling you when you're an ass. And loving you anyway." Bass nips at his jaw. "And… you were right to pick them up. Even if it does mean I feel guilty about the screaming some days."

"Yeah. A little guilty," Miles agrees. "But… probably not as much as I should. I'd say 'they never complain'… but they probably don't dare…" He laughs, just lightly. "And just think… if we build a militia and get ourselves a real base of operations… we'd have our own space. And then we wouldn't have to worry about the screaming ever again."

"Miles… we'd need a fucking… penthouse suite and the whole building empty for it not to be an issue. However. Having a permanent bed I could totally buy into."

"…Well, true. But it would be a start. And I'm right with you on the bed. In more ways than one…"

He gives a devilish little grin and pushes up to kiss Bass again. Just because he can. And because the man is making him feel better, and that's not easy to do sometimes.

Bass uses the push to flip them over so he's underneath. Because. Well. Why not?

"If it's permanent we might even want to not ruin the sheets this time…"

Why not, indeed? Miles slips a knee in between Bass' and leans in to kiss him again… then grabs his wrists and pins them lightly against the ground.

"That sounds very… sensible," he says. "But… how long before you decide you miss the sight of my blood..?"

"We could be tidy about it?" Bass suggests, head cocked to one side. He likes… this. Likes it when Miles holds him. He feels… safe. And… awake. At once.

"Put down something over the top or I could try to make you bleed without letting it get anywhere…"

"…You sick, sick fuck…" Miles breathes in Bass' ear. In that tone of voice that he knows full-well drives the man wild.

And… he tries not to think about how much he wants the other thing. Is this even normal? To want… to do both? At the same time?

Bass gasps. Fuck but that tone just… goes all the way through him. A flush on his cheeks and he's squirming uncomfortably.

"OhfuckyesMiles…" he all but gasps out. "I want your blood all right. I want it all over my hands. I want to paint over your chest with it. Fuck. Fuck but I love hurting you and I'm not even fucking sorry…"

"I should fucking well hope not," Miles replies, kissing up the side of Bass' neck. "Because you're fucking _magnificent_ when you do. I still think about that night in Allentown. Both of those nights. I'll never _stop_ thinking about them."

Bass shivers. The kisses tingle. Make his skin burn. Even though… even though remembering Allentown is now tinged with regret. Not for what they did, but for what they left behind.

Hands on his arms. "I'd let you do it all over again. I would. Maybe I'd even be man enough to ask for it, one day…"

"Maybe you will. I know I will. I… fuck, Bass, every time I think about it, I just get these… _cravings_."

It isn't just about getting turned on. That's not exactly a new thing. No, this is much deeper. Much more… complicated. And… and maybe even stronger.

Bass looks at him, curiously. "What… kind of cravings?" he asks.

Miles… stares back at him. Eyes dark again. Really, really dark. "…Cravings," he repeats. "Like… like I need you to hurt me. Not want – I mean, I do want, yes – but… _need_. Deeper. And I wonder how I'll keep _breathing_ if you don't… And it… feels so wrong, and so right, and so… so fucking incredible…"

Bass' mouth drops open. Fuck. Fuck but that's hot to hear. His eyes searching Miles'. Even pinned down… it does… things to his insides. Makes them sort of… clench and tingle and burn.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, Miles. I… I… love doing it because… because I can see how it makes you feel and I feel… I feel… like I… like I really _know_ you, and _own_ you and… _fit_ you. I love the way it makes your eyes burn. And. And. Your voice. And… and… _Ilikeitwhenyoudoittome, too…_ "

"So do I," Miles whispers, close to Bass' ear again. "You're so fucking beautiful when you beg. When you break. When you _need_ so much you can't think. It makes me want you even more… and I want you a damn fucking lot to begin with."

Bass makes a choked little noise that sounds very much like he's breaking right now. Head back and throat offered. Shaking from head to toe.

" _Yours_ ," he promises. "I'm yours. All yours. You can hurt me, you can break me, you can do anything you fucking want, Miles. Because I belong to you…"

Miles kisses slowly up the side of Bass' neck again. "You do. And I belong to you. And I will give you everything, Bass. _Everything_. I love you."

And it's still so fucking incredible, to have this. To be able to feel these things, _act_ on these things and know… _know_ … that it's all right.

Bass smiles. He's still blushing rather a lot. At the thoughts. Memories. All of it. "Just… hold me close, tonight. I need it to be just us. Before I have to share you with more people. Let's just have one last night, Monroe and Matheson. And then we can save the world tomorrow."

"Of course," Miles agrees, rolling them both onto their sides and gathering Bass into his arms, holding him tight. "But even when there's other people… I'll always be yours."

"I know. I know you will. But I'm still gonna be jealous. Even if you don't want to fuck or… or… hurt any of them. Because. You're all mine." Bass feels a bit weird admitting how jealous he is. But it's the truth.

"Yes. Yes. _All_ yours. Always. And people will see that. They'll know. They'll know I'm yours, and you're mine. And no one else's."

"And… when it's all done and we fix everything… we'll settle down somewhere. With the horses. And Jeremy and Ollie next door. And… I don't know. We'll teach people to fight or some shit."

Bass hasn't thought all that far ahead. He wonders where they will end up. Chicago, probably. "And we can run a bar, so you never run out of the good stuff."

Miles laughs a little. "Us, running a bar? Can you imagine? We'd be through the stock ourselves in no time, unless… oh, I bet we could set up our own brewery…"

His eyes go distant for a second, and then he kisses Bass again, just lightly. "Well. So long as you're there… I don't mind where we end up."

"Yeah maybe I should keep you away from bars. Even if you are fun when you're drunk. You stay awake for _more_ fun when you're sober."

He nips at Miles' ear. "Let's just… let's just sleep here. I'm sure it will be fine for one night. I just… want to hear the river, and you."

"All right," Miles agrees, curling in closer.

And though the pain and the rage is still smouldering at the back of his mind, the rest of it… is quiet, now, and he knows he has Bass to thank for that.

But… tomorrow. Tonight, for once… they just sleep.

***

When Ollie and Jeremy wake up the next morning, they're a little surprised to find that Bass and Miles haven't come back. Which is why, a short time later, having – perhaps foolishly – volunteered, Ollie finds herself following the Miles-shaped trail of destruction deeper into the forest. Eventually, she rounds a broad tree and comes upon a clearing, filled with the gentle sound of flowing water.

Ahead of her, on the far side of the clearing, is the river – and a little closer, on the bank… are Miles and Bass.

Ollie… stares just a little. She'd been a little concerned that she might find them completely stark-naked, or… _at it_ , again, so she's surprised to see them both fully clothed and still asleep. They're tangled in each other, Bass curled into Miles' chest, neither one moving.

She stares a little more. In the month she's been travelling with them, Ollie has seen how close the two of them get, but this is the first time she's seen them – or any two men, for that matter – just… wrapped in each other. Outside of all that fanart on the internet, of course. But this is somehow… so much more.

Ollie starts to move closer, padding slowly over the grass, not wanting to startle them. But she only gets halfway before there's a sudden movement in front of her, a heavy double-click, and… Miles is pointing a gun at her. Without otherwise changing position, and without even opening his eyes.

And his aim is perfect. If he fired, he'd kill her on the spot.

She freezes. "Miles!" she hisses, urgently. "Miles, it's just me. Ollie. Wake up."

He seems to process her voice, and lowers the gun, eyes still closed. "Hm? Sleeping. 's there coffee?"

Bass doesn't even lift his head. He just moves his hand to whack at Miles'. "Stop shooting friends," Bass grumbles. "Might have coffee." He then proceeds to push in closer to Miles, and wait for people to do nice things. Like bring coffee. Because he's faintly aware that if he moves, he's going to realise how stiff he feels from sleeping out in the cold wrapped in nothing but Miles.

Ollie puts her hands on her hips. "There's coffee back at the camp. Where the normal people slept. Are you coming or not?"

Miles slips the gun away, apparently satisfied that he doesn't need to shoot anyone right now, but otherwise doesn't move. "The coffee could be here, instead," he points out, hopefully.

"Wake the fuck up or I'll tell Jeremy he can drink the lot," Ollie replies, firmly.

"Change mind," Bass grumbles. "Do shoot."

Miles sighs, starting to become vaguely aware that maybe he should actually get up. And not wanting to. Sleeping out in the open in the middle of a forest is not exactly the best way to ensure you wake up feeling spry and rested.

"…Bass," he says. "Come on…"

Fucking mornings.

Bass refuses to move. He is not sitting up unless pulled up. "Water here. Get clean. Coffee here. Get awake."

Very reluctantly, Miles untangles himself and sits up, blinking around at the world as if vaguely irritated with it. Then he rubs a hand over his eyes before looking back at Ollie.

"Hey," he says. "Sorry about the gun thing. Old habit."

"Uh… sure…" Ollie replies, not really wanting to know how you pick up a habit like that.

Now Miles turns to Bass, and yanks him upright. "Come on, you," he says. "We have important things to talk about with the others, remember?"

Bass sighs and allows himself to be manhandled upright. "Fine. Give me a minute."

He staggers over to the river, drops to his knees in front of it, and dunks his head in.

Then he falls backwards onto his wrists, spraying water everywhere.

"FUCK me but that's cold." He slides his fingers through his hair, and gets up. His eyes look a little bleary but he blinks it out. "Well what are we waiting for?"

Miles stares. Quite a lot. "There is something very wrong with you," he points out, fondly.

He goes over to the river himself, to splash some of it onto his face – albeit a little less enthusiastically. Then he staggers to his feet, still blinking somewhat accusingly at the world.

"Come on," he says, offering Bass a hand.

"There's lots wrong with me, but coffee fixes a great deal of it," Bass points out. But he takes Miles' hand anyway.

Fuck whatever the kid thinks.

Ollie just looks pleased that the other two are being a little more normal. At least by their standards. She sets off walking back through the forest, letting them follow, heading towards the camp.

And… the smell of coffee. You can always rely on Jeremy for that.

"Let me at least have coffee before we go all serious," Bass asks, when Ollie's walking ahead of them.

"Sure," Miles agrees, pulling Bass in a little closer. "Besides, I could really use it right now. And we weren't even up late last night. Not late for us"

"No. Although we did think it was a good idea to sleep out in the open. We must be soft in the head…" It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The same could be said about a lot of things the pair do.

Jeremy has coffee and his signature 'berry surprise' breakfast waiting for them by the time they arrive. "Hey. So you didn't get eaten by wolves!" he says, cheerily. "Good. We did worry when you didn't come home."

"No," Miles says. "No wolves. Coffee?" The closer he gets, the more he wants it. He did just sleep all night in the middle of a forest, after all.

"He still tried to shoot me, though," Ollie adds, moving around to sit next to Jeremy. "Without even looking. Very inconsiderate."

"He didn't actually _do_ it," Bass says defensively, grabbing his cup of coffee with a nod of thanks and curling up around it. He sits cross-legged, breathing it in like it's everything good in the world.

"…why did he try to shoot you?" Jeremy asks, baffled.

"Because you shouldn't sneak up on a trained soldier when he's sleeping!" Miles exclaims, going for his coffee and having a mouthful – seemingly unaffected by how hot it is – before giving Ollie a slightly – slightly – apologetic look. "Sorry," he adds. "I wouldn't actually have shot you."

"…Try to sound a little more convincing," Ollie replies, though teasingly. Mostly.

"He would have done a warning shot first," Bass points out.

"Why the fuck were you off in the woods anyway?" Jeremy asks. "Or… should I avoid asking?"

"…We were sleeping," Miles says. "We just… stayed out there, after…"

He has another mouthful of coffee, staring into the fire. "Look. I'm sorry I stormed off last night. I was just feeling a bit… on edge."

"It's okay," Jeremy says, checking over at Bass to make sure… it is okay. He doubts they'd have come back so joined at the hip if it wasn't. "It… was rough on all of us. And we… we didn't even do the… clear up."

"Miles and I talked," Bass cuts in, before Jeremy says any more bad stuff about yesterday. "And… and we want to do something about that maniac." He looks over to Miles for support.

"Yeah," Miles agrees, also wanting to move the conversation away from the previous day. Partly because it hurts, and partly because… he doesn't want Ollie to flip out again. Because that had been… worrying. "We talked about it all, and we both agreed we want to do something, but we can't do it on our own. So…"

It's an odd thing to say. He wonders how they will react. "…we're going to build up an army. A militia. Bit by bit, gathering allies until we have enough people on our side, and then… we can go up against Franklin. Make him pay for what he's done."

"I… okay," Jeremy says, and now he's glancing over at Ollie, to see what she thinks. "And…"

Bass puts his hand up to stop Jeremy saying anything else. "We know neither of you signed up for that. Jeremy – you just wanted to stay alive and get shown how to stay alive. And Ollie you just wanted the fuck out of that town which was… waiting to die. We get that. And if you don't want to become soldiers or you don't want the danger and shit… it's okay. You can stay with us as long as you want, but we're not gonna force you to fight or anything. But… but we'd like it if you wanted to stay."

Ollie listens. Stares. It really is quite something to be suggesting, starting from just a pair of soldiers wandering in the countryside. And yet… she's already seen what they can do. Seen how they rallied Allentown, even if only for a short while. Seen how they fought.

Seen how they deal with Hell on Earth.

"…You guys saved my life," she says, looking around at them, and it's clear she's including Jeremy in this. "And yes, you may be completely insane, but it's the good kind of insane, and I don't know where I'd be without you. I just know I don't want to know. So… wherever you go, I'll go. For as long as you'll have me."

"Well… I can't fight to save my life," Jeremy says, a little reluctantly. "But if I can be of any help at all… I owe you my life, too. So even if all I do is prevent you dying of food poisoning… then I'm with you all the way."

Bass sighs. "It was one time. Honest to God. One time."

Miles looks at them both. It's an odd feeling. He wants to protect them. He also… wants them to never leave. "It isn't going to be easy," he points out. "Creating an army from nothing, especially in all this chaos… it's going to take time. And we still need to get to Chicago. I haven't given up on finding my brother. But… if you accept that, we want you along. And we'll step up the pace with teaching you. Get you both better able to defend yourselves. And to fight."

"Because you're gonna need it. His goons are obviously… armed. And there's a lot of them," Bass points out. "So we won't be able to take them on straight off. We'll have to be sneaky. And we won't know for sure when we go to places if they're gonna sell us out."

"We said yes already," Jeremy replies, softly. "I'm sure we both understand what's involved."

"'Cause we do," Ollie adds, glancing at him, then back at the other two. Trying to look as sure and determined and prepared as possible. "Yes, it will be dangerous. Yes, there's no guarantees. But we're still safer with you, and you know it. So. You got your first recruits."

Miles looks at them both. Really, really looks. Then he nods. "All right, then. Welcome to the Militia."

Bass tries not to look relieved. He's glad they want to stay. He is. More so than he thought he would be. "Well then. The future starts here. Or it does when I get fed anyway. Please tell me there's food?"

Jeremy makes a long-suffering noise and hands Bass his little mess-tin of berries. "We're going to have to find a way to bring chickens along, you know," he says mournfully.

"…Just so long as you aren't planning to teach them to fight…" Miles remarks, with a little grin, settling back with his breakfast.

"Chickens don't fight, cocks fight," Jeremy points out. "And cocks don't lay eggs."

Bass nearly chokes on his breakfast. "Uhm. Yeah. Cocks fight."

"Bass! How old are you?"

"Depends if we had my birthday or not yet. I don't fucking know, now."

"…Where did we even get you from?" Ollie wonders aloud, with a little grin.

"How complicated an answer would you like to that?" Miles replies, trying to drag the conversation back out of the gutter. Somewhat. "From the bushes outside Allentown. From Parris Island, So Cal. From the United States Marine Corps. From… Jasper, Indiana."

"A long, long time ago," Bass points out. His smile goes a little more fixed at the memory of their hometown. "More recently, from the University of Ass-Kicking."

"Bass, I am not calling you Professor," Jeremy insists.

"Well you're not fucking calling me Indie, either," Bass insists, finishing his coffee. "That's the dog's name."

"I KNEW you were a geek!" Jeremy yells.

"No, I just know the fucking dog is called Indie. You can call me 'Sir'."

"Oh, somebody's on a power high," Miles says, slapping Bass on the arm but giving him a very promising you-wait-til-I-get-you-alone look. "Though don't forget that you also wanted to go with 'General.'"

"Don't aim low, do you?" Ollie remarks, with a grin.

"Only when I fight dirty," Miles answers.

"Generals get called Sir," Bass says pointedly. "So either will work."

"Does that make us Privates, then?" Jeremy asks, trying to stifle a snigger.

"Jeremy!" Ollie hisses, and hits him (lightly). Then she blinks. "…Wait, does it?"

"…Technically, I suppose it does," Miles answers. "Although if we're having ranks… we'll want trusted people who can start out higher."

"We could put them in at Sergeant," Bass says, thoughtfully. "Good, solid rank that."

"So are we going to need to salute and stuff?" Jeremy asks. "And polish our boots?"

Bass looks quizzically at him. "Why the fuck didn't you sign up if you like being a soldier so much?"

"Always worked for me," Miles agrees, with a grin. "…Though you don't have to go nuts from the word 'go.' But I guess if we can build this up… it will have to get more structured."

"Also… who will you let in this militia?" Ollie asks. "Just guys, or… women too?"

"Anyone who wants to fight," Miles answers. "Guys, girls, the lot."

"Women are fucking batshit psycho in wars," Bass points out, knowingly. "I mean, seriously. I never thought I'd say it but some of them were the scariest. And not just once a month."

Jeremy whacks Bass hard on the arm. "You can't say shit like that!"

"Why not?" Bass asks, sounding wounded. "It's true. They are fucking scary. And what's more, some men don't want to hurt them so they're bulletproof as well. Fucking great to have on your side even if it means you have to watch your mouth."

"…Good fucking point…" Ollie manages, rather weakly. Studiously avoiding everyone's eyes. Jeremy's especially, because he after all will get the undertones in the question.

_Will you throw me out when you find out the truth?_ It's a relief to know the answer is probably 'no.'

Miles gives him an odd look and then finishes the last of his breakfast. And his coffee. "Well. We should get going. If we're gonna start recruiting… we should step up the pace."

"We'll go wash the dishes," Jeremy offers. "I need to freshen up and Ollie can give me a hand." Mostly because he knows she won't have dared wash in front of them. And also in case she needs to talk.

"Okay, we'll pull the tents down," Bass agrees.

"…Sounds good to me," Ollie agrees, very quickly.

Miles raises his eyebrows at the 'give me a hand' part – because if _he_ said it, it would probably mean something else… and he's starting to wonder if it still does.

And then he looks at Bass. And wonders how long Jeremy and Ollie will be gone.

Bass catches the look and nearly bursts out laughing again. "Also we're running low on blackberries, Jeremy. So you should look for some."

Jeremy goes bright red. "Uhm. Okay. We'll do our best." Because he knows precisely what Bass is suggesting.

Ollie stares between the two of them, wondering what the fuck is going on. And then she gathers up a few things and sets off into the forest – back towards the river – before she has to find out.

Miles just rests back on his elbows, looking unnecessarily amused. And not at all like a man who is about to take down a tent.

"Come on," Jeremy says, grabbing Ollie by the wrist and marching her off. "Before they get any more lewd about what they think I should be doing to you."

Bass smirks. "Have fun. Oh. And look for cocks, too. I mean… chickens."

"…What?!" Ollie half-says, half-squeaks, as they disappear off.

"You're very mean to those poor boys," Miles remarks, not actually looking in the least bit disapproving. "It's not their fault they haven't worked out how to move beyond flirting yet. Unless they're about to. Maybe the thing about the blackberries will make Jeremy take the hint…"

"I hope so," Bass says, staring after them for a minute. "They're obviously made for one another. And it's about time Jeremy got laid. If they don't do it soon I'm going to find him an inflatable sheep."

Miles hits him, not very hard. "There is something very wrong with you," he points out. Again. "Besides. He'd probably rather an inflatable Dark Vader or whatever the fuck he was going on about the other week…"

" _Darth_ ," Bass corrects him before he can think about it. "And that's fucking sick, Miles. Jesus. Do you get off on heavy breathing or something? Or do you want me to dress in long, flowing black cloaks and wave a lightsaber at you and say I'm your father?"

"…Geek," Miles says, automatically. "Also? Fuck, no. Except for the black cloak. I can see that being kinda hot…"

"No, I just have ears," Bass replies, defensively. "And you can shut up. So are you going to help me take down these tents or should I put buns on my head and pretend to be a princess?"

"You wouldn't suit the gold bikini…" Miles points out, with a wicked grin, and turns to start working on the tents. In these cases, down is easier than up.

"No. I'm more of a blasters and giant walking carpet best friend kinda guy," Bass agrees. He goes over to the other side, unhooking and rolling the fabric off the frame. It's quick and simple, and they still do it a hell of a lot faster than the other two.

By this point, Miles is lost with the references, so he focuses on something sensible (for a change). The first tent goes down easily and they're soon onto the second – their own, which is vaguely annoying because they never actually used it this time.

And. Sort of distracting. Because… he's thinking about other things.

Like blackberries.

Bass is focussing really hard on getting the tents away. Really hard. Because if the other two come back and the tents aren't away? It will… well, it will look just as bad as it is.

"Come on, cowboy," Bass says, dismantling the frame and trying to look anywhere but at him. Stuffing it back into the ridiculously small bag, and dragging it over to Humvee to strap it along with the other tent. Leaving…

Nothing. He stands by the horse… wondering. How long, precisely, will the other two be off? It sort of depends on a lot of things. He bites his bottom lip. Fuck it.

He walks back over to where Miles is standing. And places himself directly in front of him. Head tilted slightly to the side, eyes on his. Waiting… for the moment to break.

You rarely have to wait long with Miles. Right now, he allows just about long enough for Bass to headtilt, then reaches out and grabs him. And kisses him hard, hands all over him. Needing – and wanting – him very, very much.

It would have felt wrong last night. This does, however, mean it feels even more right this morning. Due to all the sensible waiting.

Bass just… enjoys being held and kissed and wanted. For about thirty seconds. And then his hands are on Miles' forearms, and he shoves him forcibly backwards. Right into the nearest tree. Mouth locked on his, body grinding firmly up against him. Pushing a knee between his, and rubbing his crotch over the man's thigh. He lasts about another thirty seconds, before his hands are moving again, pulling open fly and belt buckle and shoving down into Miles' boxers, finding his already-willing cock and stroking it. Hard.

" _Fuck_!" Miles gasps, pressing back against the tree, already dizzy with need. "Please, Bass. _Please_." And not at all above a little begging if it gets him what he wants. Needs. Fuck, yes. He keeps his hands on the other man, not wanting to let go even a little, pulling him in to kiss again.

Bass kisses him back, fiercely, pushing his tongue into Miles' mouth whether he wants it or not. His blood is burning with how much he needs him. How much… how much the fear of death had pushed the love of life back into him. A hand on his hip as he jerks him off rough and hard, not letting up until he can feel Miles starting to shake with it.

And then he pushes back, as hard as he can. Hands on Miles' shoulders, standing at arm's length. Staring him in the eyes. He should say something. He should. Instead… he drops to his knees and grabs the man's hips and swallows his cock whole. He wants everything. Right. Fucking. Now. He wants to taste him and he wants to hear him and he wants… wants… wants… and he knows he's going to get what he wants unless Miles decides against it.

Which is not going to happen, because Miles is _extremely_ in favour of all of it. He grips hold of the back of Bass' head as the man takes him deep, crying out again – and rather louder this time.

"Fuck! Bass! Yes! Fuck, I need you, I need you…"

He does. He's channelled all the rage from last night into purpose – good purpose, and something he can feel fully invested in, oh yes. But the _fire_ is still there, separate from the anger… and it needs something rather more primal to sate it.

Something… like this. "Oh _fuck_ … don'tstopdon'tstop _don'tstop_!"

Bass makes as much of a noise of agreement as he can with the man's cock pushed down his throat. It's making his eyes sting but he likes that. Likes how heavy and thick and warm and _him_ he tastes. He holds Miles' cock like that for a moment longer than is probably wise. Until he starts feeling just the slightest bit light-headed from how choked he is. And then he pulls back as far as the hand on his head will allow, using his lips pressed tight around him. Pulling back until just the tip is in his mouth. Which he sucks. And sucks. And sucks. And then scrapes his teeth and pushes down to the base again, then back up. Faster. Faster. Trying to pull him over the edge as fast as possible. Aware the other two might get bored any minute and come back to find him sucking Miles off in the remnants of their camp.

See him on his knees, mouth full of dick, hands in his hair, and… fuck. Fuck but that makes this even… better. Not that he actually _wants_ them to see. Not really. It's just the thrill of the danger of it. And it makes him go even faster still.

That's more than enough. Miles goes suddenly tense, the hand in Bass' hair tightening all the more. "Fuck!" he cries. "Can't… can't…"

And in just another couple of seconds he's coming hard and quick, holding Bass in and arching into his mouth all the more, needing every last flicker of stimulation; pleasure and completion racing through him as bright and as hot as the undimmed fire in his mind.

He doesn't even think about the others. Doesn't worry that they might come back. That they might – likely _will_ – hear. All he can think about right now is Bass. How he's the whole world.

"…fuck…" he breathes, as his climax finally abates and leaves him panting against the tree. "Fuck… Bass… Bass… I love you…"

Bass doesn't let up until he's sure Miles is done. Not to mention the man is holding him in place on his cock. Which is… all kinds of wonderful. When he finally relaxes his death grip, Bass sits back on his haunches. Finishes swallowing, licks his lips, and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth just in case there's any trace still visible.

His smirk is very, very feral. "I know you do," he croaks back up at him. "You fucking psycho. I love you too." He rests his head on Miles' hip, nuzzles against his slowly softening cock just to catch the last shivers of feeling from it. And then he grabs the man's hips and slides lithely to his feet, torso-to-torso. Leans in to push kisses to his lips. "You taste fucking amazing," he tells him. "I could eat your cock all day long if you let me."

"Maybe someday I will," Miles says, nipping at his lips in reply. "Maybe someday when we're Generals of a vast militia and we have whole bases at our disposal… maybe then we can spend an _entire_ day in bed, doing whatever the fuck we want to each other…"

Oh yes, that sounds good. Very, very fucking good.

Bass slides his arms around Miles' waist. "I could suck you until my jaw hurts and my tongue is raw. Let you slide down my throat and when you're about to come, pull off and stroke your shoulder and talk tactics… then go back to sucking you, making your fucking cock turn red with how much it needs me to swallow it…" He pushes Miles' head back and bites over the front of his throat, grinding hard against him again. He's still fucking hard, even if Miles has already come.

And then – because he doesn't move fast enough – Bass pushes him sideways and _down_ , and kneels over his chest, hand on either side of his head. "And when I'm done driving you crazy, and you're almost passed out from how hard I make you come, I'll push my cock into you. Ass, mouth, whatever. I'll just use you until I'm done. And then we'll sleep for _hours_ until it's time to do it all over a-fucking-gain."

Miles doesn't resist – doesn't want to resist. He lets Bass throw him to the ground, pressing up enthusiastically when the man pins him, staring at him with dark, pleasure-filled eyes.

"Fuck, yes," he breathes. "I'm _yours_. I will always _be_ yours." And then, because his hands aren't held, he reaches to pull Bass down, so they're forehead-to-forehead. "And I'll do the same to you. _And you'll love it_."

His mind is in that strange hinterland between force and surrender; between giving and taking. And… he needs something to knock him one way or the other… so he pushes up, suddenly trying to flip them both – waiting to see if Bass will throw him back down or let it happen.

Say what you like about this uneven power balance. It keeps things interesting.

Bass' immediate reaction is to resist. It usually is. But he fights it back down for a moment, wanting to see what Miles has in mind. He can always decide to get pushy again in a minute, after all. But he does put his hands on him as soon as they're rolled. Ready to tug and roll back around… or not. Depending.

"Yes," he agrees. "I'll fucking love it. Because I'm a fucking… I'm a fucking whore for you." It makes him feel a bit weird to say that. But here he is, on his back. Spreading his legs to let Miles between them. Although he's feeling increasingly like he has to change positions.

"You really fucking are," Miles growls in his ear, as he pushes a hand down between them to start getting Bass' trousers open. "And I know what you want, you sick, sick fuck…"

He gets a hand on the man's cock, stroking him a few times, and then an idea clearly crosses his mind, because he stops and pulls back. "…Up on your knees. Trust me."

Bass decides it's okay to lie there, if Miles is going to shove his hands in his pants. Is going to get hold of his aching prick and stroke it. He thunks his head down against the floor, panting and wanting. Pushing up into his hand. Fuck but he really is a whore for him.

But he blinks when Miles stops. Doesn't he know Bass fucking needs to get off… right now? His head was going all sorts of nice places and he wants… movement?

"Get off me, then," he says. Well. Mostly growls. Because he's fucking horny and it better work out soon. He gets onto his knees, and looks at Miles curiously. What the fuck is he planning on doing?

Miles is in behind him in a second, on his knees too and pressing in close. He's already sated so he isn't thinking much of himself, but it does feel good nonetheless. Then there's a rough, metallic _shiiik_ and all at once he's got his knife over Bass' throat, right under his jaw.

"I told you," he growls in Bass' ear. "I know what you want. I know what you _need_."

Keeping the knife against his neck, he reaches around with his free hand to take hold of Bass' cock again, starting to stroke him firmly. Slow, to start with, but gradually starting to build up the pace.

Bass is confused by Miles going behind him because he knows full well the man isn't in any fit state to fuck him. Which is a shame. Because the man has a truly wonderful cock. And as much as he loves sucking it, he also loves having it rammed into him. But then Miles draws his knife and Bass goes stiff and still. His heart pounding. The air feels… thicker. Like it's hotter, and there's less oxygen in it. His chest tight. He sways on his knees, drunk from how… much that knocks him inside.

Head thrown back, hands up and – okay can't quite put them on his head – arms bent and fingers reaching back to rest on Miles' shoulders. "Y-yes," he hisses. "Oh fuck yes."

It feels so good that he almost forgets Miles has hold of his cock. Almost. But then he can't _forget_ because he's stroking him and stroking him and his hips start to move on their own. Head perfectly still, trying not even to breathe under the knife. "OHFUCK, OHFUCKFUCKFUCKMILESPLEASEFUCKPLEASE!"

Fuck, but that's a good reaction. "I fucking love you," Miles growls, still close to Bass' ear, pressed in so that every word is right there. "My sick, twisted deviant. I've got you, and you're going to come for me. You're going to come like a fucking _freight train_ , you eager little whore, and you know what? I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to enjoy it because I _love_ watching you fall apart under my hands. Under my knife. And you know it."

He strokes harder; punishingly hard. Chasing a result, despite the urge to draw this out. Make him beg. Make him wait. No. Not this time. This time… Miles just wants to feel Bass _break_.

The words are as much of a turn on as the hand and the knife. Bass has always been a sucker for listening to the man talk. Ever since… well. Forever. And when his voice is rough from need, and saying such delicious, wonderful, terrible things? He's completely lost. He doesn't know how the man gets so much power over him, but he knows he has it. He has everything. He could tell Bass to do near enough anything and he would. And he'd be grateful that Miles chose to speak to him.

His knees slide a little further apart as he tries to rut into Miles' hand. And that scrapes the knife over his throat and he cries out in shock. Fuck but he needs to come. Needs to. So fucking much he can't _think_.

"PLEASE, MILES," he yells, voice utterly ruined. "Please, please PLEASE let me come please let me come please oh fuck oh fuck it hurts oh fuck Miles please I'm begging I'm your whore I'm your fucking whore I need you fuck please let me please please PLEASE!" Although if he doesn't say yes soon Bass is worried he's going to come anyway. He can't hold out much longer. Not under this onslaught. And it's clear in the way his hands shake on Miles' shoulders. The way his legs are struggling to hold him up. The way his breathing goes all out the fucking window and his voice sounds like he's begging for his life.

_Fuck_ , yes. And all of this… only makes Miles worse. Makes him want to push and push and _push_ , just because he can. Makes him want to… not relent. Show no mercy. Why the fuck not?

He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. The knife is pushed up all the more, pressed in almost dangerously close, and he keeps stroking Bass' cock as hard as he can. Rough. Unrelenting. Merciless. Not intent on stopping until the man shatters completely.

He laughs, soft and deadly. " _I'm going to pull you apart_ ," he breathes. "And you'll _still_ thank me for it."

Bass tries. He really, really tries. He tries thinking of the most unsexy things he can. (But his mind refuses to stay on those subjects, thankfully.) He tries thinking about really sad things. (And even more mercifully, he manages about two seconds of that before the distraction pulls his mind back.) He tries holding his fucking breath, but that just makes him feel faint. The knife is pressed hard enough that it's stinging. The hand on his cock is going to rub it raw and he knows it will burn for hours. And the man behind him refuses to show him any mercy.

"P-please," he manages one last time. But the hand on his cock is too harsh. The knife on his throat too sharp. And with an anguished yell of self-loathing, he's spurting out over Miles' evil, wicked hand. Every last little twinge feeling like a defeat. Like he's failed Miles. And still it feels good even as it feels fucking awful too. Whatever that says about him… Bass is not ready to think about. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry…"

"All. Mine," Miles whispers, a little taken aback by the fear in that reaction, even if he knows he shouldn't exactly be surprised. " _Mine_. To take, to hold, to break… to love…"

Slowly, he slips the knife away and wraps both arms around Bass, dropping down onto his heels and pulling the other man into his lap. "I've got you," he whispers. "I've got you. Whole, or in pieces. You're all mine."

As soon as Miles moves, Bass is twisting in his arms, grabbing hold of him by the waist and burrowing in as deep as he can. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I tried. I tried, Miles. I tried. I couldn't…"

Shuddering, clinging to him, needily. "Please… please… don't be angry with me…"

The words slip out before he has a chance to censor his thoughts. His head and his heart smashed wide open and vulnerable, in just a few minutes. It's terrifying to him, how quickly Miles can pull him apart. Raw and bleeding.

"Hey, hey," Miles whispers, gently, "I told you… I told you I'd pull you apart. And I did. But I'm not angry. Not at all. You felt fucking _incredible_ , Bass…"

He wraps his lover in tight, holding him close. Protecting him. "Relax. It's all right. I have you."

Slow, slow, gentle strokes over him; down his spine, over his shirt, and then… slipping under, stroking higher, finally tracing fingertips over the recently-healed mark on the back of his shoulder. "Mine. Always mine."

Bass settles a little bit under the words. Under the reassurances. He did say he would. But still, Bass' pride got the better of him and he tried to hold out. Tried to hold on. He nods. He shouldn't feel upset. Not if he was doing what Miles wanted.

His mind is in the middle of processing that, when Miles' fingers push over the scarred flesh on his shoulder. And it feels like all the air is sucked out of the world. Like something kicked him in the sternum. And like he's back in Allentown. Chained down. Screaming blue murder in perfect agony under Miles' knife.

Without a thought, he moves in a flash of blue and green. Miles is on his back, and Bass is wrapped around him in every possible way. "Yours!" he promises, even though he's just flipped out yet again. He wants that hand to stay there. Wants those fingers never to move. Even though it makes something wake up and explode inside him. " _Yours_." Nosing at his jaw, at his throat.

Miles opts not to fight the movement, wrapping Bass in close and holding on, and making sure to keep stroking over his shoulder once they're both down. Loving how that makes him react. Knowing – from experience – precisely why.

"My Bass," he whispers. "I love you. I couldn't do this without you. You're my whole fucking world."

"Don't stop," Bass begs, suddenly. Knowing how shaky his voice sounds. How needy. And not giving a fuck. "Ohplease… please don't stop…"

Fuck but those fingers feel good. Maybe it's because he's already weirdly… down. Or something. But the touches to his shoulder feel downright electric. He is shaking like mad under Miles' hand.

"I won't," Miles promises, softly, "I won't…"

Even though he can't see the mark, he can feel it, and he finds the start, tracing over the lines bit by bit, drawing out the letter M all over again. Such a simple little action and yet… so resonant. A mark of shared ownership, shared love, shared need… that won't ever fade.

Bass gasps. It feels… it feels sort of like Miles is splitting him back open, as well as putting him back together. Every inch of his skin seems to be on fire, but the focus is on his left shoulder. He keeps his eyes closed, to better focus on the feelings. The warm, calloused fingertips that push beyond the flesh. Push into his heart.

"Oh… oh… oh Miles…" It feels so fucking good. It feels… almost better than sex. He stirs gently on top of him, under his hands. "Ohfuck… oh fuck, fuck, fuck… Miles… fuck yes fuck…"

Feeling him fall apart like this is just incredible, and Miles doesn't want to stop. He knows he probably should. Knows they probably don't have much longer. But… _fuck_ , it feels so good.

"I know," he whispers, still tracing that mark over and over, other hand now curled around the back of Bass' head, keeping him close. "I know, I've got you, I've got you, Bass, I love you so damn fucking much…"

" _Yes_ ," Bass replies, sounding… raptured. And completely off his head. "I love you. I love you. I fucking love you. I'm yours. All yours. All yours…"

"We found some!" Jeremy calls, from not very far off. He can't hear any screaming or grunting so it's a reasonably safe bet that they can come back. "Loads, in fact!"

And then he's in the little clearing they made camp in, with Ollie in tow and two tins' worth of berries. And he stops dead. "Er…"

…oh fuck. Can the man not take a hint? 'Blackberries.' It means 'Miles and Bass need to have a lot of sex now so go and do something useful for at least an hour.'

At least they're not completely naked. Thank fuck for small mercies. Though Miles does have to contend with the fact that they're not exactly dressed, tangled in a pile on the floor, and… Bass is completely off his head.

Ollie, meanwhile, is staring. Finding them asleep in the forest had been one thing. This? This is rather more. She hides behind Jeremy, confident that she shouldn't be looking and slightly unable to stop.

"…well, that was quick…" Miles says. Not yet getting up. And certainly not letting go of Bass.

"Did you have good sex?" Bass calls out. His voice completely guileless. The filter that should be there is long since gone, and he really doesn't understand that he's being rather rude.

"NO! I mean… Bass, what the fuck?" Jeremy yelps, dropping the tins and turning to put his hands over Ollie's eyes and ears. "What the fuck, man?!"

"Oh, I am sure you'll get better at it," Bass says, and goes back to snuggling into Miles' arms.

"…You were supposed to take longer," Miles translates. Sort of. Not quite able to add 'we thought you were going off to fuck too,' in case he's horribly misjudged the situation. And because – for once – he feels a little guilty. Maybe it's because he's still in hyper-protective mode.

Carefully, he sits up – keeping Bass gathered into his lap, both in order to continue holding the man, and also so that… certain unclothed places aren't visible.

Ollie squeaks rather a lot, not knowing what to make of this at all. And not at all sure what the fuck is wrong with Bass.

"It's okay, we were pretty fast our first time, too," Bass goes on. "But it was fucking hot. And then we learned how to take longer and that's fucking hot too but sometimes we're still fast because we can't help it so you don't need to worry but maybe you should try cooling off a bit in the middle, it might help you not finish so fast." He's completely misreading what Miles is saying, because he's convinced the other two were just off fucking.

"We didn't have sex! We're not going to have sex! Will you stop talking about… SEX?!" Jeremy blurts out. "Fucking hell, what the fuck did you DO to him, Miles? No… wait… I don't think I want to know!"

He should leave. He really should leave. But it's sort of like a trainwreck you can't walk away from. And what the fuck is wrong with Bass? He doesn't even sound normal, and he's draped all over Miles and he isn't moving and he doesn't seem the slightest bit embarrassed.

"DID YOU HURT HIM?" Jeremy yells.

"No, the knife didn't hurt," Bass replies. "Not today anyway. It did in Allentown."

"WHAT. THE. FUCK?"

Miles puts a hand over Bass' mouth before he gets any worse. "Shush," he says, hoping that the man is still under enough to obey, even if he's not coherent enough to take the hint.

Then he looks over at the other two. "I didn't hurt him. Uh… today. Well, not much. It's not my fault we both like knives…"

…oh, apparently Bass isn't the only one whose mental filter isn't working properly.

"…The fuck?!" Ollie squeaks, going more and more high-pitched.

Bass kisses Miles' hand, but is still feeling buzzed enough that he takes the direct order. And goes back to cuddling him affectionately. And making what sounds like purring noises.

"Ollie… Ollie go… go… somewhere sane!" Jeremy pleads with her. He still can't quite leave even though he wants to.

Instead, he rounds on Miles. "And you… you are a bad man!"

"Sane?" Ollie repeats. There's somewhere sane left? She can't quite back off, either, though she doesn't dare get any closer.

Miles looks up at Jeremy. "And?" he says, flatly. "I'm sorry you came back too quick. I'm not sorry for what I do with my boyfriend. He enjoys it, and so do I."

It's not something he expects most people to get, though. He still doesn't fully get it himself. He just knows that sometimes he wakes thinking about knives and handcuffs and those are… interesting mornings.

Bass tries to chime in to the effect that he _really_ fucking likes it, but he still has a hand on his mouth so it's muffled.

Jeremy's jaw drops. He tries to stop gaping. He does.

It's just… they…

He grabs hold of Ollie's wrist and tugs. "Come on. They need to clean up." He tries not to sound disgusted. He truly, truly does.

Even though on one level he knows he's being utterly ridiculous. Knows Bass asked them politely to give them some time. And that when they came back too early, he didn't do the sensible thing like bow out politely and quickly, and instead started a row with Miles over what Bass clearly consented to. He knows this. But he's still feeling self-righteous, and hot under the collar.

"Yeah," Miles says, voice almost – almost – a growl. "We do." He doesn't like the… disapproval in Jeremy's tone.

There's nothing wrong with what they do. Maybe it isn't for everyone. And that's fine. But that doesn't make it wrong.

Ollie stares at Jeremy for a moment, then back at Bass and Miles. And then… she lets Jeremy tug her off, into the forest again.

Jeremy just carries on walking and walking. Following much the same path of destruction that Miles had the night before. (And if he paused to realise that, he'd be even more pissed off.) He doesn't stop until he gets to the river.

And then he lets go of Ollie and drops to his knees and grabs two hands' worth of water and flings it into his face.

"…OK, Jeremy, what the fuck?" Ollie says, stopping a little distance away. She realises she's only known the guy for a month, but in that time she's never seen him get annoyed by anything. Even when Miles and Bass wind him up terribly. He just… drifts above it all.

But right now? Something is obviously not right.

"They so shouldn't be doing that out in the fucking open," is all Jeremy will say. "It's… not right."

He pushes wet hands through his hair. Eyes closed. But then he remembers… other days by the side of cold, fresh water and he has to concentrate very hard on not stripping naked and diving in.

"I know," Ollie says, trying to be… soothing? Maybe? "I guess they probably wanted to last night, but…"

But they were still thinking about that village. And it wouldn't have been right. And she can't help appreciating that.

All of this is still… weird, to her. She'd never had a proper relationship before the Blackout – a couple of high school boyfriends, yes, but they never went any further than a bit of kissing. And it was all… pretty much kids' stuff, in the grand scheme of things. This is far more grown-up, and no amount of reading fanfic on the internet can prepare her for it. Ollie knows that.

But. She is not stupid. And 'they shouldn't be doing that out in the open' is not enough of an explanation for why the World's Nicest Man is suddenly taking out his rage on a river.

"Yeah. Well. They could at least have done it in a fucking tent so we didn't walk in on them all… I don't want to talk about it," Jeremy concludes.

He wants to punch something. Like maybe a tree. It would probably hurt but it might feel good? No? He knows he's still being an ass but he's too annoyed and wound up to not be an ass.

"We'll let them come find us. If we go back too soon again Miles will probably just shoot me and be done with it."

Ollie takes a step back, holding up her hands. "Whoa… Jeremy… seriously, what's got you so..?"

Then she stops. Looks at him. Looks back in the direction they've come, the reality of the situation slowly starting to dawn. And, dropping her voice, she asks, "…Do you have a thing for one of them?"

Jeremy's face goes bright red and he goes suddenly very, very still.

"Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I like every guy I see," he answers, quietly.

"I know that, you idiot," Ollie replies, gently, dropping down on her knees close by – but not too close – and watching Jeremy carefully. "But I have _never_ seen you freak out like this. And I… OK, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but…"

She shakes her head. Wonders… if he forgets sometimes. Like she does. "…I'm a woman, Jeremy. We understand these things."

Jeremy puts his head in his hands and rocks back on his haunches. "It's just… hard, okay. They have one another and I don't… have… anyone and it's… it's… I have to listen to them and know that… and… I…"

He does get up. And punches a tree. And it fucking hurts and he yelps loudly in pain and grabs his hand and cradles it against his chest. "FUCK ME BUT THAT WAS A BAD IDEA."

Ollie is… quite genuinely scared by the intensity of this, but something overrides the fear and she leaps up, going over to Jeremy and wrapping her arms around him. She's barely half his size but she squeezes him as hard as she can, not knowing what else to do but needing to do something.

"It's OK," she tells him, her voice shaking. "It's OK. Just talk to me. It's OK."

He wants to push her off. Not to hurt her. Never to hurt her. Just… to run and run and never come back. He could take Prius and go. He knows enough now that there's every possibility he wouldn't die.

But… he knows he can't. Knows he won't.

Knows… he knows awful things about her. So it's only right she knows he's a jealous, nasty little man. He sinks back down to the ground, head in his hands.

"I'm such a horrible person," he says, distraught. "I should be happy they're happy but I'm not. What the fuck does that make me?"

"Hey, hey, stop it!" Ollie exclaims, letting him sink down but then dropping down beside him, wrapping her arms around him again. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare say that, Jeremy Baker. You're the best man I've ever met and you saved my life. So… don't."

She pauses. Takes a careful breath and stares at him. "It's all right," she whispers. "I told you… more than I've told anyone else. So… so you can tell me."

He lets her hold him, but he still won't pull his head up. "I didn't. They saved you, not me. Same as they saved me. And I knew they were fucking from the first night and I tried to run and Bass asked me to stay and I know he didn't want me to stay because he knew I'd get in the way but he asked me anyway and I said yes and maybe it's just because I'm not… because I'm frustrated but sometimes I hear them and it makes my blood burn and it's not that I'm angry it's… I'm just jealous. And I love them both but I don't think I mean like _that_ , it's just… it's just that I wish I had it too and they're so fucking _happy_ together that some days I feel _sick_."

This is… more than Ollie expected, and she genuinely doesn't know how to react to it. How are you supposed to react to it?

"… _You_ saved me," she says, first. Because it's the easier part, which is telling in and of itself. And because she thinks he's far too used to just letting other people take the credit for things. "They agreed to take me along, yes. But you're the one who made me stay, Jeremy. If you hadn't, that first night… I'd probably have run off back to Allentown."

Which doesn't bear thinking about.

"Yeah, but if I hadn't been around you could have just kept pretending to be a boy in a tent on your own and listening to them instead of trying to distract me from all the noises," Jeremy insists. Even… even if it is kind of nice to think that maybe he had some small part in keeping her safe.

"And you… _do_ you actually love them both? I mean… if you'd asked me to guess, I would have said it was Bass you liked, but the way you were just yelling at Miles…"

She pulls him in tighter. Strokes through his hair. This is… what you do? Right?

But having that thrown in his face stings like hell. And he winces under her scrutiny. He's tried very, very hard to be polite and kind and reasonable and sensible and not at all creepy and here Ollie is thinking he has a – what? Crush? Thing? For Bass? And then he really did just over-react to about the millionth degree to Miles. And was that because he could see full well what Miles had done to Bass, which he wanted to do, or was it because he wished Miles had done it to him, instead?

He curls up tighter still. "I don't know. It's all moot anyway. They are meant for one another. They are perfect together. And maybe I'm just feeling like this because I have no one else to feel anything about. Maybe it's just because they have what I want and never had. Fucking Marines! Fucking Marines of all things and they get a boyfriend. And me… I was fucking gay since I was sixteen…" He shudders. "It's pointless thinking about it because it couldn't ever happen."

Ollie just… listens. And doesn't let go of him, even though she's still a little scared. "I'm so sorry," she says, gently. "I don't… I don't know what to say. But… whatever you feel… you're not a bad person for feeling it, you know. And… I know it might not be the way you want, but they appreciate you more than you think. I saw the looks in their eyes when you said you wanted to stick around and join this army-thing they're going to build. And it wasn't just because they wanted more numbers. So… so… it will be all right."

I sometimes think about running away. He wants to say it, but he's too much of a coward to even admit it aloud. I think about it. I think about riding off in the night. I think about…

"…maybe I'm just stressed because of that… place…" he suggests. "Maybe seeing so many dead people just got me upset."

Of course they want him around. Who else would cook?

"I know," Ollie says, with a little shudder. Thinking about that place could upset anyone. But… she knows it's more than that. "Look… I won't say anything, I promise. And… I'll let you deal with it however you think you should. But… I'm here, OK? And I know we don't have any chocolate ice cream, but I can still do the supporting thing."

His laugh is a little… forced. "What I wouldn't give for fucking chocolate ice cream right now."

Jeremy drags his head up. Fixes red eyes on her. "…thanks…"

"Don't mention it," she says, gently. Carefully. Giving him another hug, because she thinks he needs it. "We should… stay here a moment, before we go back. Longer, if you need to."

But Ollie still isn't entirely sure what Jeremy has just admitted to her. Is it just that he's jealous of what the other two have and wishes he has someone of his own? Or… is it that he wants one of them? Or… _both_ of them?

…how would something like that even work?

"I don't know if… I don't know… if I can go back to the horses," Jeremy admits.

"You have to," Ollie replies. "We need to keep going. I'm not letting you run off. You stopped me, and I'm returning the favour."

"Yeah, but you didn't blow up at a man for… doing things to his boyfriend. I don't think Miles will want to see me." Which is kind of the crux of it. And he doesn't even want to begin to think how Bass will feel, when he comes round. They did both see him rather… vulnerable, as it were. "Do you think maybe I could just ride behind for a week or something?"

"Jeremy, seriously… it's going to be OK," Ollie insists. Hoping she's right. "They're not going to take it out on you. They'll want to brush it off, too… I think they know they went a bit over the top this time. And much as I know they're all with the loud, brash, bullish thing… they're not vindictive."

"Yeah but I did more or less accuse him of domestic abuse," Jeremy points out. "And. I don't really want to… uhm. Discuss. Why. With him."

This is something Ollie has been shying away from. Because… it's even more weird. "…Why _did_ you think that?" she asks, very, very carefully. Not sure she should, but… not quite able to stop herself.

"You…" He won't look anywhere near her now. "You… really want me to answer that?"

Yes.

No.

…Maybe?

No.

…Sort of.

"…You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Ollie says, after a moment. "I'm just… I'm here. If you want to talk. About. Anything."

…Like what the fuck happened to you that you'd think…

"I… er…" Jeremy bites his lip. Hard. "You know… you know I told you they… they don't… they… uhm…"

Fuck, this is ridiculous. "Okay. Fine. I know full well that they're both sado-masochists and they regularly hurt one another and they have been doing it for some time – since I met them – and I was just being a fucking bitch about it because it's not abuse if it's consensual and Bass was in subspace. And I don't mean on a fucking spaceship, either."

Ollie… backs off a little. Staring at him. She's… heard a bit about this sort of thing, but only as some abstract idea, and being faced with it in reality is so alien to her that she just has no idea how to respond.

"…I… oh… I didn't mean to…"

…so is that what you're jealous of? Do you want someone to… or, wait, is it that you want _them_ to…?

…holy freaking fuck.

"…I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

"It's… sort of not my place to tell you about it, though. But you would probably work it out eventually anyway. From all the screaming and blood and stuff. It's not like they're subtle about it, but I guess at least they're both… happy about it."

More than happy, he thinks, if how Bass just was acting is anything to go by. And it's not the first time. Although the first time they've seen either of them quite so far under.

"It… look, Ollie. I was really out of line with them. I mean. It's perfectly… natural for some people to do that and I _really_ don't actually think it's abuse. Some people do use it to abuse but they… they aren't… they don't do that kind of shit. So. Maybe we should just break Prius out for me and let me go before I put my foot in anything else today."

"…I'm not letting you run away," Ollie says, trying to sound firm and mostly just sounding nervous and a little sad. "I'm not. I don't want you to go, and I don't think they do either. So… let's just go back and find them. So you can see it's all right."

…please oh please let it be all right.

"…only if you stand between me and Miles," Jeremy says. Only half-joking.

"…Sure," Ollie agrees. "Even though you'll both just be able to talk over my head."

"I don't think…" I don't think I'll be talking much. "…okay. We… do you think we left them long enough now?"

"Probably." Though of course Ollie has no idea. And the full extent of that is starting to become clear to her. "Come on."

Before one of us freaks out again.

Before they walk back, though, he puts a hand on her shoulder. Waits, and when she's ready… he grabs her in a big bear hug.

"Thanks for… you know."

Ollie hugs him back. "Don't mention it. That's what straight best friends are for."

He whacks her just a little over the head. "You're twisting my lines," he accuses. And then he grabs hold of her hand.

"Come on. They might have one another, but I've got something better."

"Yeah. A midget cross-dresser who can't cook either."

Then Ollie gives a wry little grin and squeezes Jeremy's hand tight. "Come along, you."

***

Miles doesn't move until Jeremy and Ollie have disappeared off into the trees. He sits for a long moment, with Bass still gathered in his arms, hand still over his mouth.

Fuck. They really should have been quicker. Although that doesn't excuse Jeremy implying…

…fuck.

Miles finally moves his hand, but continues to glower in the direction the other two have disappeared off in.

Bass might be down, but he's not completely stupid. And Miles and Jeremy were just yelling. At one another. And Miles is still pissed off.

The fear that he's done something wrong comes back with a vengeance, and he looks worriedly up at Miles. He won't even talk. Not yet. Not til Miles looks down.

Eventually, Miles snaps out of it and looks at Bass, a guilty flicker in his eyes as he pulls the other man in close. "I'm sorry. I guess we should have been faster. And I shouldn't have yelled, but… I don't like him insinuating that you didn't want this."

"But I do," Bass says, sounding utterly confused. "Why was he angry with me?"

"He wasn't angry with you. He was angry with me." Which is odd, because Jeremy never gets angry with them. "He thought… I'd hurt you in a way you _didn't_ want."

"Why?" Bass asks again. He really just doesn't understand. "Should I tell him I do?"

"No, no, leave it to me," Miles answers. He knows… Bass isn't in the right state of mind at the moment. And… he never meant to push the man this far. He'd just been trying to wind him up a bit, and then he was under, and then… "I didn't mean for them to see you like this. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bass says. "I don't mind. But I made you and Jeremy mad. So I'm sorry." He didn't mean to, but he can sort of see that it's probably his fault. "I thought he was going to go fuck Ollie."

"Apparently not," Miles replies, glancing off in the direction the other two went, again. Maybe they misjudged that. Or maybe… the other two aren't at that point, yet. "And you didn't. But I don't know why he was so… explosive about it…"

He strokes over Bass' jaw. "No one else has ever seen either of us… like that. I guess… I felt like he was intruding."

"He's probably sad he isn't getting laid," Bass points out. "I keep trying to get him laid. I do. I feel bad about it."

He closes his eyes as he leans into the hand on his jaw. It feels good. "I'm only like this for you," he says. "Just for you."

"I know," Miles tells him, softly. "I know. And I don't think it's wrong, what we do, but… it isn't normal, is it? Or is it? I don't even know…"

"Does it matter?" Bass is confused why Miles is even asking. "It makes us happy. It makes _me_ happy." He blinks up at him. "Isn't that enough?"

"Of course it's enough," Miles reassures him at once, pulling him in tight again. "I'm just… trying to work out why Jeremy over-reacted so much…"

"Maybe you should ask him?" Bass suggests. "And, even if it isn't normal, I don't care, Miles. I don't. I want you to do it to me forever. And I want to do it back. And it's not like we're hurting him so if he thinks it's wrong he can think it's wrong but I don't. And I won't."

Miles grips Bass' face in both hands. "I'll do it to you forever. And let you do it back. I promise. I _love_ what we are. What we have. I wouldn't change it for anything."

Bass smiles up at him. "Then it's fine. I don't give a shit. People used to think being gay was wrong so they can all go fuck themselves because they aren't having as much fun as me."

"They really aren't," Miles agrees, grinning just a little now. "And you're _really_ fucking hot when you go like that. I don't even know what the fuck it is but I love it."

"Hmm? You mean… down?" Bass asks. "Opposite of Up?" His own smile is goofy in return. "It… it feels good when you do it to me. I don't know why but… it feels sort of… beyond… and… stuff. Exciting and safe all at once."

"…Yeah. Down." Miles thinks about this for a moment. He has no idea what people who do… this sort of thing… actually call it, but 'down' is strangely accurate. "It does feel good. Really, _really_ good. So… we shouldn't be ashamed of it. And… if he has a problem with it, then… well, that's his problem."

"He's just jealous," Bass concludes, with a strange amount of emotional intelligence for once. "You should go easy on him. I mean. I've got you and Ollie won't put out." He stretches in Miles' lap. "You can do it to me as much as you want, though. I feel like I could just sit here in your arms forever…" He still sounds a little dreamy.

"I'm not going to make a thing of it unless he does," Miles promises. "It's nothing to do with him. Not really." He strokes slowly down Bass' spine, fingertips dragging against the fabric of his shirt. "I could hold you forever," he whispers. "I feel… like the ruler of _everything_ when you're like this."

Bass moans under Miles' hands, and grabs him by the shoulders, pushing until he lies flat and Bass can stretch out on top of him. He grinds slowly against Miles' crotch. "I'd do anything. Anything. Any fucking thing you asked me to, right now. I mean it. Oh fuck, Miles, I mean it… I wish I could just ride your cock right now… I wish they would leave us for another five hours so I could just fuck myself on you over and over and over…"

_Fuck_ … why did he have to go and do this in the _morning_? Miles knows why – academically, at least – but it doesn't stop him wishing he'd done it last night, when they really did have hours to just enjoy this.

He's going to have to do it again. And again. Fuck, yes.

He reaches up, stroking along Bass' jaw. "I know," he says. "I know you would. And I'm sorry we don't have longer right now. But tonight… tonight I promise I will give you _everything_ you need…"

Bass grinds back again. Again. It's not like he's really ready for more. Not yet. But he will be, before long. And the thought of sliding Miles into him when he's already warmly sated and can take his time… oh yes.

"Please," he asks. Nigh-on begs. "Please promise me you'll fuck me tonight. Send them off to catch a fucking elephant. _Anything_. Just promise me you'll let me ride you like a fucking pony, Miles. My ass aches with how much I need you in it. I'm not going to be able to focus all day because all I'll be thinking about is you _in me_."

Miles' eyes go dark. "I promise. And I want you to spend all day thinking about it… so that you're _overwhelmed_ with need by the time I give you _everything_ …"

He grabs hold of Bass and deftly flips them both, so Bass is on his back with Miles on top, staring down at him. "And I _will_ give you everything, Bass. Count on it."

Bass smiles up at him, his face dancing with delight. "Fuck. Fuck yes. Oh fuck yes, Miles, _yes_ …"

He arches up, kissing at his lover's jaw. "I'm all _yours_ , General Matheson. Body, heart and soul."

…sweet _fuck_ but that's hot. Miles would have pushed for promotion faster if he thought it would sound like _that_ on Bass' lips. "Yes," he whispers. "You are. All of you. _Forever_."

Bass suddenly drags his feet up on either side of Miles, spread open around him. He looks… insanely wound.

"Please… please… will you put your fingers in me, open me up, so I'm spread and wanting all day and then you can just pull my pants down and slide into me, whenever you want me… push in and take me because I'm nothing without you in me… please… please, General…"

…oh fuck.

Miles knows he shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. He should make them both get up and get sorted so they're very, very ready when Jeremy and Ollie finally come back.

The trouble is that Miles rarely thinks with his head. Especially when he's in _this_ sort of mood, and Bass is in _that_ sort of mood, and there really is nothing in the _world_ hotter than the way he begs, especially with that fucking _rank_ , and…

…oh, fuck it. Him. One of those.

Miles drags a hand down between the two of them, and shoves a finger into Bass without preamble. Partly to give him what he wants, and partly… out of a slightly alpha desire to make him scream.

And be heard.

Fuck.

Bass can see Miles is going to give him what he wants long before he moves. And it's like a giant vice around him, crushing him. Like the air pressure has increased a thousand-fold. Like nothing exists but where Miles touches him, and where Miles _doesn't_ touch him.

He drops his head backwards and _howls_ as Miles pushes into him. It's hard and rough and dry and tight and it stings in just the right way and means he can feel every last bump of bone inside Miles' finger. Inside of him. Makes him sure he's going to be feeling it all day. Makes him sure he's not going to be able to do anything but wish it was night-time. So Miles could put what _really_ belongs inside him… inside him.

"FUCK, yes! Yes, yes, YES!" he cries out, slamming his hips down against Miles' hand. "Oh fuck yes I need you I need you I fucking need you so fucking much I don't give a fuck what they think because YES FUCK YES!"

Fuck, but that's good. Miles lets him scream. For a long, long moment. Longer than he should. Longer than common sense would dictate. And then, finally… he presses a hand over Bass' mouth again. Other hand still very much occupied.

"Shhhhh," he breathes. "I know what you need. And you're going to wait for it. And then, tonight… you're going to get it…"

Bass makes a noise of dismay mixed with need into Miles' hand. Fuck. He scrabbles to fuck himself as hard and fast on Miles' hand whilst he still can. Because it feels good. So very, very good. And he wants more. He always wants more.

Eventually… Miles pulls back, but keeps his other hand in place a moment longer. " _Now_ we have to make ourselves presentable. We have a lot of ground to cover today. And all the way through it… I know what you'll be thinking. _And you know what I'll be thinking_."

Bass whimpers at the hand moving from between his legs, but his eyes stay on Miles'. And he nods. Oh he will. All day. Even thinking about it now is making his balls tense.

Fuck but he won't be able to look anyone in the eye. Anyone.

"Good," Miles breathes. " _Good_."

He moves his hand from Bass' mouth, and leans down to kiss him. Not wanting him to feel _completely_ bereft. And… because it feels so fucking amazing.

Bass chases Miles' lips. Begging at least one more kiss. "Please don't ride too long today," he says. "We can totally find somewhere well before it gets dark."

"…Maybe we will," Miles says, nipping at his lips. "If I'm feeling merciful. If not… it could be _really_ late before I find somewhere suitable…"

Bass looks utterly wounded. "If you do, then I might just get off Lambo and camp on my own and use my hand on my ass until you ride back and do it right."

Which is when Miles grabs his wrists and pins him down. Hard. "Oh no. You'll wait. And you'll thank me for it."

And he kisses him hard again, just because.

Bass looks fucked out of his head when the kiss breaks.

" _Please_ don't make me wait long, Miles. Please don't. It's already bad enough I have to behave during the day. _Please_ don't be cruel…" Even though it's clear he has no intention of disobeying. Just… begging.

"Bass…" Miles breathes, gentler now. "My Bass. How could I ever refuse you?"

He relaxes his hold on Bass' wrists, and goes back to stroking over his jaw, in something like wonder.

The answering smile is crooked, but heartfelt. "I don't want to find out. Ever." Eyes closing as he just enjoys the touching.

Even if it has to end, soon. Which he knows. And is trying not to be upset about.

"I know, I know," Miles says, softly. "And you won't ever have to."

For another moment, he just… lets himself enjoy the contact. Lets himself revel in this, in how good it feels. How right. And then… he drops his head a little, resting against Bass'. "We really need to move," he points out, very reluctantly. "Before they come back and find us like this again."

"And 'fuck off, give us a day' isn't an option?" Bass asks, even though he knows it will be 'no'.

"…Sadly not," Miles answers. Very much wishing otherwise. "Besides, this way you have something _really_ worth looking forward to…"

"I could look forward to a day full of sex, too," Bass says with a pout. And big, puppy-dog eyes.

Then he sighs. "Okay. Fine. I will behave. But only because you told me to."

Miles grins, and kisses him quickly. "Yes," he says. "I did."

And then, very reluctantly, he starts to get up.

Bass waits until Miles is up enough, and then he reaches out to tuck him back in his pants and fasten them for him. With only the slightest bit of groping.

When Bass is done, Miles reaches down to pull him to his feet too, doing the same to him. With at least as much groping. Possibly a little more.

"Deviant," he whispers, warmly, and leans in to kiss him again. Because, fuck it, he _can_.

Bass wraps his arms around Miles for one last, long hug. Face pushed against his shoulder. "Do you think we should go find them? In case they're worried you're fucking me?"

Miles shakes his head. "No. Give them time. If they need it, then… they need it."

Reluctantly, he lets go at last, heading to find one of the canteens of water and splash some of it on his face. He still _looks_ like he's been rolling about on the floor in a somewhat debauched heap, but at least it's better than nothing.

"Okay," Bass says. But he does look off in the direction the other two left, worrying a little.

"I've… never seen Jeremy… yell before."

"I know," Miles agrees. "It's… weird."

He still can't work out why the man was so upset. It's not like they ever kept their relationship a secret. And… they aren't exactly subtle about how… involved they sometimes get. Jeremy has seen both of them in a state more than once – buzzed or wounded from the night before.

So why this should be any different… Miles doesn't know.

"Maybe… I mean… should I apologise, do you think?" Bass asks. "I'm not sure what for, really, though…"

"No. You didn't do anything wrong. Neither of us did."

Well. Maybe Miles should have made sure they were a little quicker. He knows this. But he isn't going to admit it.

"But… if it means he stops yelling?" Because… Bass doesn't like it. When Jeremy yells.

Miles sighs. "Fine. I'll tell him it won't happen again."

He suddenly feels the need to be… busy, and starts loading the last of their equipment onto the horses. So they're ready to go when… Jeremy and Ollie do get back.

"Well. Maybe that we'll _try_ not to let it happen again." Bass is a realist after all. "I mean. We are only human. And you are so fucking hot I will find it hard to keep my hands off you."

"Are you decent?" comes a yell from further off. Jeremy. Sounding… nervous.

Bass looks – for a moment – worried. But then he stares at Miles, not quite ready to be yelling again yet.

"…Yeah," Miles calls back. "As we'll ever be." And oh, he sounds a little… sullen.

After a moment, Jeremy and Ollie emerge from the trees. Ollie lingers close to Jeremy as they do, still not entirely sure how he's going to react. Hoping he keeps it together this time.

"So. Uhm. We… all packed?" Jeremy is still standing behind Ollie.

And Ollie is still about ten inches shorter. So it isn't very effective.

"Yes. We're all ready," Bass says, trying to sound… normal. And welcoming. Or something. And not like he's panicking.

Miles sighs again, shakes his head a little and turns to Jeremy. "Look. I'm sorry. We should have been quicker. It won't happen again." Polite, but… clipped.

"Er, no, it's okay. I should have… uhm. Realised." Jeremy is trying to disappear into the trees. Like a ninja. Maybe if he acts really small and invisible…? "I'm… I'm… sorry. I. Uhm. Over-reacted."

"Please don't be mad at Miles," Bass blurts out before he can stop himself. "He isn't being cruel to me and I don't like it when you're fighting." He still sounds… not quite… 'right'. And he's walking closer to Miles, because he suddenly (strangely) feels a little… threatened. Even if Jeremy is apologising too.

"Seriously, it's fine," Miles insists, trying to brush the matter off. "Just forget about it. And…"

…Oh, he wishes Bass hadn't said that. But… he has to roll with it. "I'd never hurt Bass against his will. So don't worry."

"I. Uhm. I know that," Jeremy says, blushing to the roots of his hair. "I was… I was… it was just… not what I expected to walk in on and I kind of didn't know what to say. So. Can we all just… act like it never happened?"

Bass nods furiously. Because right now he sort of wants to hide behind Miles. And he doesn't enjoy that feeling. "And I would punch Miles in his face if he did," he points out. But then he looks up, apologetically. "Uhm. I mean. If you hurt me and I didn't want you to. Because that would be… wrong."

"Shall we get on the horses?" Jeremy asks, his voice going a bit higher pitch.

"…I think that would be for the best," Miles replies, in that terribly level tone which usually means it's time to back off slowly. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

Ollie grips Jeremy's hand when no one is looking, and then goes over to Audi, petting her horse's neck a couple of times before she leaps lightly up into the saddle.

Jeremy gets on Prius, but immediately walks his horse over to stand next to Audi. Where he can avoid looking at anyone. At all. Ever. His hands shake ever so slightly on the reins.

Bass stares sadly after them. He can tell it's still not quite right, but he's not sure what to do or say to fix that. He looks worriedly at Miles for guidance. The slightest awareness that he might be putting his foot in his mouth every time he opens it beginning to dawn on him.

Miles is not going to say anything. Is not. He's confident he's in the right.

Confident.

He climbs up on Ferrari's back. "Let's go," is all he does say.

And they do.

***

They ride all day, unusually subdued and quiet. The road is empty and uneventful, and they don't go near any towns.

Miles… is clearly still in a mood. Whenever they stop for a break, he's fiercely protective of Bass, but otherwise doesn't talk much.

Eventually, as the light starts to fade, they stop to make camp on the shore of another lake. It looks set to be an equally awkward night.

All through their supper, words have barely passed back and forth, to the point that even Bass' cheery mood of the morning is dampened. But no one will mention the elephant on the horse.

So when they have an excuse to split up, Jeremy is happy to take it. Anything to get away.

"I'll go clean up," he says, gathering all the dishes. Even though he cooked and really it isn't his turn. He just wants away from the horrible atmosphere. He doesn't even wait for anyone to say anything before he's off.

Bass looks forlornly after him. Today was supposed to be a good day. A day of purpose and new beginnings and things. (And other… private things.) But Jeremy being in a mood has sort of spoilt it all.

So when he leaves, he looks at Miles. Because. Miles has been just as stand-offish, too. And no attempt to draw either of them out has helped.

Miles tries to look immoveable. He does. He doesn't like admitting he's in the wrong, but he's aware on some level that he's being a bit of a dick.

Even if he isn't in the wrong. Well, much.

He sighs. Fuck it.

"…Jeremy, wait."

But the man has already disappeared off, down towards the lake.

"…Fuck it."

Miles gets to his feet and stalks off after him.

Bass stares after them for a minute… and then goes over to where Ollie is sitting.

He feels… a wave of sadness, and in the absence of Miles and Jeremy, Ollie is the closest thing he has to family.

"Okay if I… sit here?" he asks. "They might be a while. Miles is not really… the touchy feely talky type. So they will either be back quickly or one of them will come back roughed up in a few hours… and…" He stares after them. I don't want to be alone right now. But he won't say it aloud.

Ollie looks… a little surprised. Of the three men… Bass is the hardest one to fathom. Jeremy wears his heart on his sleeve and Miles deals with most things by glaring at them, punching them, or one then the other. But Bass… Ollie still doesn't quite know what to make of Bass.

"Sure," she says. And then, because she knows he isn't all right either, she adds, "…You OK?" Giving him the opportunity to just brush it off if he'd rather.

"Sort of." But even that admission costs him. "Yeah. I…" Still staring off after them. "I just… I need them… not to be pissy with one another. And… Miles… Miles really… doesn't deal with this shit well. And I've never seen Jeremy upset before. So…"

It has me frightened. A lot. He sinks to the ground next to Ollie, and pulls his knees into his chest. "I never planned on us… picking people up. But now I don't want to lose you. I mean. If you decided to go, of course. But not over some stupid shit like this. Not… not after all this time…"

Ollie stares a little. Are they all planning to open up to her like this? (Hopefully Miles isn't. She doesn't think she could cope with that.)

"I'm not going anywhere," she promises. "You guys saved my life. You can have the odd bad day if I get to keep not dying."

"No one is killing you," Bass says, suddenly fierce. "No one. No one hurts my family."

And then he realises he's gone a bit… over the top again, and he ducks his head back down. "You… you just stay with us. And I promise I'll stop trying to get you to fuck. I was just trying to be nice. I didn't mean to get you all upset. I guess I don't have that gay-dar or whatever. Makes sense. I never get the good shit."

"Don't worry about it," Ollie tells him, putting a cautious hand on his arm. Trying not to think about the first part because it's a little too scary. "And I… appreciate the thought, I really do. Jeremy's lovely, but he's not my type. He's a decade older than me and it would be too much like… like being with my big brother."

Bass opens his mouth to say something about 'fucking brothers is bad' when… "Wait… so you _do_ like guys?"

"…Yeah. But I… haven't had a boyfriend yet. Not a proper one. Isn't easy when you're nineteen and growing up in small-town America. At least until the lights go out."

Bass suddenly beams brightly. "So I was right! Hah! Just… okay. Younger men. I can keep an eye out for younger men. But only if you try to help me find Jeremy a boyfriend. Because… he's too fucking nice to be single. Even if it would be sort of a bit creepy I guess for you and him." He slides his legs out a little more, feeling less of a need to hide.

"And yeah I guess it would be hard. I mean. Me and Miles didn't figure it out until about three years ago. And even then we didn't do anything because we were Marines. So… you're really brave, you know?"

"I'm… not really looking for one just yet," Ollie admits. "I'm not saying I'd turn down Mr Right if he came knocking, but… I don't mind being single. I really don't. But… if I find someone who might be good for Jeremy, I'll let you know."

Then she looks down. Feeling… suddenly a little wretched. And sort of wanting to tell him the truth, even though she doesn't actually dare. "…I'm just… being me…" she insists.

She doesn't remember the last time she was _her_.

"Okay. But. You decide you want one? You bring him to Uncle Bass and Uncle Miles first, and we will make sure his intentions are honourable and we will knee-cap him if they aren't." He says this with a very winning smile. "Because I'm not having anyone take advantage of you."

He wraps an arm around Ollie's shoulder and grabs him for a quick hug. "You're being fucking amazingly together for someone your age, kid. Don't knock yourself. Me and Miles were off being… well. Like we are now except louder and less gay. And killing people. So. You just keep being you."

…OK that's a little scary. And also sort of awesome. Ollie nods. "I'll do my best," she promises.

Maybe one day I'll even tell you the truth.

And maybe… I'll be me again.

***

Miles stalks down the path towards the lake, leaving the other two behind him at the camp. "Jeremy," he calls out, again. "Wait."

"It's okay," Jeremy calls back. "I got this."

Especially because it's Miles. And Miles needs not to be following him around. "I won't be long!"

"I know. But I need to talk to you."

Alone. He's trying not to make it sound ominous. He could possibly try harder, though.

"No, no, it's okay, really."

Jeremy wonders if he drops the dishes and makes a run for it, will he make it to Prius before Miles murders him?

"I'll be back in a minute!" Sounding even more worried now.

Miles sighs. Why do people always assume that he equates 'talk' to 'kill'?

"I need to talk to you _alone_ , Jeremy. Calm the fuck down."

But now Jeremy has reached the lake and there's nowhere else to go, really. So he keeps his back on Miles (denial) and drops down to start cleaning the mess tins. "Okay. I'm not sure why you're getting so upset. It's just dishes, Miles. It's not like I'm running away…"

Miles stops a little way off. Not wanting to crowd the man and make him even more likely to run for it. Because Miles is not in the mood to chase after him.

"Look. I'm sorry about this morning. I may have been… abrupt."

"Nope. Nope it's fine," Jeremy says, still sounding like he's afraid for his life. "I was rude. I should have realised to give you longer and stayed back. I know and I'm sorry. And I'm sorry I yelled because I really _don't_ think you're a bad boyfriend or anything and I was really out of line and I would _love_ it if you could pretend it never happened and it could all go back to two days ago and we could stop riding like someone shot one of the horses…"

Miles shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to ten. Which he can get away with because Jeremy has his back turned.

"…I'm _trying_ to _apologise_ ," he says, once he gets past ten. It sounds a little painful.

"Well you don't need to but thanks anyway!" Jeremy says, still bright red and scrubbing. Scrubbing the same dish over and over. "So is it all okay now?"

…oh, for the love of…

"…But I _am_ , OK?" Miles exclaims. "I… fuck. Do we have a problem? 'Cause I thought things were going fine and now I'm worried I'm missing something."

Miles does not do difficult conversations. At least, not with people other than Bass. So this isn't exactly easy for him… but he is trying.

Jeremy stops what he's doing. His head sort of… brick-walls. And he just stares at the mess tins, like they might sort everything out.

He's still being an ass. He was trying to not be an ass and hoping maybe they could just pretend like it never happened and then he'd stop being upset and worried in their company and it could go back like it had been. Before. When it had all been great. And he'd been convinced the world was a shiny, sparkly place. That everything was cool. Because he was with Miles, Bass and Ollie.

"Things were going fine," he forces himself to answer. And he stares at his reflection in the mostly-still water. The smile on his face is fake and plastic.

"…It's just hard… to… be around you today. And nothing I can say will make it sound less dicky on my part, because I want to be happy for you both but today… today I kind of… am not. So maybe I should… maybe I should just… you should drop me off somewhere because I'm just going to be pissy and horrible and not a good friend, when you deserve someone who won't freak out or…" Or hate you for being in love. With someone who isn't me.

"…Jeremy. I'm not leaving you somewhere just because you had a rough day. You really think I'm like that? You wanna be pissed, fine. You wanna take a swing at me, go ahead. You'll probably end up on your back with a sore head, though. But… I'm not kicking you out."

Why does the man suddenly want to run off? Miles can't work it out. He just knows that he doesn't want him to. And that they have to solve this whole… thing… somehow.

Jeremy laughs, but it sounds broken and hurt. "I don't want to take a swing at you. I just… I'm jealous and I don't like what that makes me, okay? It always used to be fine because I wasn't exactly surrounded by role models or any shit and so it was kind of… I expected to be alone and shit but now I see what I'm missing out on and it fucking… it fucking hurts because I'm never going to find someone…"

He pushes wet hands through his hair. "And I feel like a fucking tool for even _saying_ that because I'm a total fucking hypocrite for not wanting you two happy. And I don't like… what kind of a man that makes me. Okay?"

Miles stares at him. This really isn't what he expected at all, and he knows full-well he isn't emotionally equipped to deal with it. But… he has to find some way. Their little band means too much to him now. Too much to Bass. He can't give up on it.

"…It makes you human, Jeremy," he points out, in a rare moment of self-awareness. "So… it's all right."

Jeremy tries. He does. He really, really does. But Miles' words cut to the bone and suddenly he's crying. Mostly silent, sniffly tears. He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands. "Well… I don't like being human," he replies, with a voice that's far from level.

…oh fuck.

Miles has seen grown men break down before. But other than Bass, the day his family died… _don't_ think about it… they've all been on tour. Men who broke down because of what had happened. What they'd seen. What they'd lost.

This? He has no idea how to deal with.

"…Don't," he says, but not harshly. "Seriously. I'm sorry if I was… provocative or whatever. It hasn't been an easy few days."

"Can… can you please… just let me be a dick on my own?" Jeremy begs. "It's bad enough… I just… please…" He's trying so very, very hard. But he wishes Miles would either yell at him again or leave. Not this… awkward attempt to make it okay.

Miles sighs. He doesn't know quite what to do, because his usual problem-solving options are somewhat limited. Jeremy is clearly beyond a bit of manly back-slapping, they don't have any alcohol, and all of his more involved ways of calming _Bass_ require… things he only does to Bass.

So… So. What the fuck now?

"No," he says. "I'm not giving up on you so easily. Maybe other people used to do that to you, I don't know. But I wouldn't have kept you around if I didn't want to. So… there."

Jeremy listens. He does. Even though his heart is hurting. Even though his old, long-nurtured instinct is to run the fuck away from all this crap. But what did that get him before? Nothing. And what does he have to lose?

Everything.

Which is sort of terrifying. Two guys who just turn up and save your life and… save your life.

Before he can think any better of himself, Jeremy launches at Miles. But he's not trying to hit him, he's trying to hug him. And he clearly hasn't thought this through because if he had, he'd realise sudden movements on a Marine are kind of a bad idea.

A very bad idea. Especially when said Marine is – for all intents and purposes – not in the best of moods. Miles has an arm up in a second, smacking Jeremy to the side and down before he's even had a chance to think about it.

Because you don't think about it. You act. Then you think afterwards. Only… this is probably not the best kind of logic to apply to tall, edgy gay men you rescued from bandits three months ago. Insurgents in the desert, yes. Jeremy… not so much.

"…Fuck," Miles says, and goes to help the other man up.

Jeremy lands heavily, and for a minute is too stunned to do anything but sit where he falls. Then he blinks up at Miles. Half… fear, half… awe? At just how… just how much of a killing machine the man really is. He's like a deadly snake. And for all he's been happily riding on their coat-tails for months… he'd forgotten just who and what they were. Are.

He stares up at him, and for a minute he's not sure what the fuck to do. And then he just bursts out laughing.

"…not… the smartest thing I ever did, I guess…"

"Really not," Miles says, offering him a hand. "You're just lucky I didn't pull a weapon on you as well."

…also what the fuck is with you? Yelling doesn't work and being _nice_ doesn't work, but smacking you down to the ground _does_?

Jeremy winces, and hesitates only a moment before he takes Miles' hand and lets himself be pulled up.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't. I know I was an ass but maybe you could just put me on mucking out duty for a week instead of threatening me with weaponry…?" He's back to not looking at him, but… he seems a bit less upset. Even if he still wants a hug.

"I'll try to resist the urge," Miles promises. "But if you jump at me, my instincts will kick in and I can't guarantee you won't end up with a gun in your face. So… maybe think twice before attacking me again?"

Then he lets go of Jeremy's hand and claps him on the shoulder. "Feel better?"

Jeremy frowns at him. "I wasn't attacking you. I was… I wasn't attacking you…"

"…and. Uh. Yeah. Even if I still don't want Bass to talk to me for a week in case I die of shame."

"…I realise it was a very ineffectual attack, but it was still an attack," Miles says. Still not getting it. "But we can work on that."

"You won't die of shame. It'll be fine. So… seriously, man, stop worrying."

Jeremy frowns. Is the man fucking stupid? Maybe. Maybe all the fighting has messed with his head.

Fine. If he wants to think of it like that… that's just what Jeremy will have to pretend.

"Miles… you know what Bass is like. When he finally comes back around he's going to be pissed as hell at me. So you might need to stand between us. Because I know _I_ would be embarrassed if anyone saw me off my head like that."

Miles sighs again. "I'll tell him we sorted it. And that he needs to let it go. And if he won't let it go… I'll tell him to."

It should be clear to anyone who knows what they're talking about that Miles is still very, very… Up? Is that what Bass called it? Well, he is. It's different from his usual confidence. Certainty. Much more… firm and assured. And immoveable. His usual state of mind… would be the Sergeant. This? This is the General.

Jeremy opens his mouth to say that's not such a good idea but… he can see that maybe right now… maybe it is. "Okay. Ok…ay. Then I guess we should… uh… go back. Before… before Bass thinks I've stolen you or Ollie thinks you've murdered me."

"I think that would be for the best," Miles says, and gestures to the path in a you-first-then sort of way.

It's all subconscious. If he knew what he was actually doing… he'd probably flip.

Jeremy automatically obeys, going ahead of him. Ever so slightly less worried he's going to be murdered now. Probably.

Miles follows him back up the hill, towards the camp. Glad to have gotten through that without a complete disaster, even though he's sure something about all this isn't normal.

"…which is why Miles was barred from the little league for the rest of his life and jumps whenever you make a quacking sound…" Bass concludes. And then he sees Jeremy and Miles heading back.

"Hey!" he calls out, hopefully. Eyes going from one to the other.

"Hey…" Jeremy calls back. Smiling slightly wobbily at them both, and wondering if he can hide behind Miles, next.

Which is when Miles puts a hand on his back. On a conscious level, he's trying to be supportive. Subconsciously… there might be more to it.

"Hey," Ollie says. Glad to see Jeremy in one piece, even if he does look a little… weird. "You good?"

Jeremy stands very, very still. And very, very upright. "Yeah. Uh. The dishes were really dirty."

"I was just telling Ollie about how you were a really well behaved young man, and that he totally would have wanted you as a best friend because you never got into trouble and nearly wound up dead in ditches or up trees or anything," Bass tells Miles. But he's still looking from one to the other to try and work out if it's okay now.

"All lies," Miles says, without skipping a beat. "I was in trouble every other day. And it would have been more often if I wasn't so good at getting away with it. And you loved it, so there." He shrugs. And pats Jeremy on the back again, still not thinking about it. Consciously. "Sometimes people used to wonder if either Ben or I was adopted, because they couldn't believe we could possibly be related. I just used to tell 'em that he got dropped on his head a few times when he was little. Then Dad found out and I got grounded again."

Bass smirks. "Not that it stopped me breaking into your room to keep you company. Which your dad probably knew because I'd just hide under the bed when they came around. We thought we were so clever… And I think my parents were glad to have me out the house and away from my sisters in case I turned them wrong, too."

Miles laughs. "Probably why I got myself grounded so often. It wasn't exactly an effective punishment. We had far too much fun. Fuck… we must have driven them insane…"

Jeremy glances up at Miles. "Okay if I sit?"

The question takes Miles a little by surprise, and he wonders why the man is asking something like that… but he isn't going to call him on it. Especially in front of the others. "Uh… sure," he says, waving at a free patch of ground, and then deciding he should probably do the same before this gets any weirder. He moves over to drop down beside Bass, resting against him but only subtly.

Jeremy sits where Miles waves, and immediately has his knees pulled up to his chest and his head dropped onto them.

Bass is in a less subtle mood, and as such has no shame in trying to push himself under Miles' arm for a hug.

"They were probably glad they had us somewhere they could keep an eye on us, while we thought we were getting away with it." Bass smiles even wider. "Probably a good thing we didn't work it out back then because god knows if they'd have let us bunk together."

"…Fuck, probably not," Miles says, thinking about it. He slides his arm around Bass at the prompting, perhaps a little tighter than he might otherwise have done. Holding him in close.

…and wondering what the _fuck_ is with Jeremy..?

Bass sighs happily at the hug, eyes closing as he just lets Miles' embrace make him feel more safe.

"I can't imagine you two any other way," Jeremy says, softly.

Ollie _stares_ between Jeremy and Miles, now really starting to worry what the fuck the man has done. Because… this isn't normal. In fact, it looks sort of like…

…no, surely not…

" _Anyway_ ," Miles goes on, looking at Bass, "were you just telling the duck story? Because I swear I do _not_ know how that evil ball of hell got in my locker, but I know Andy Green had _something_ to do with it. And they should _not_ have kicked me out because I was a better pitcher than him _and_ I could run faster."

Ollie stares. "Isn't this an awful long time to hold a grudge?"

"…No," Miles insists.

"But… according to Bass, you were _seven_."

"…And? I started young."

"And you kind of did… uhm… escalate rather quickly from the duck, Miles," Bass points out. "He probably had therapy for the rest of his life. You know he started wetting the bed again?"

"Remind me never to piss off Miles," Jeremy decides.

Miles looks… faux-aghast. "I had nothing to do with that fire," he insists. "The two bags of sand, yes, that was me, and the thing with the saw… oh, and the mice, but there was no way that fire was me. I was with you the whole time."

Ollie backs away slightly. "…You were starting fires when you were _seven_?"

"It wasn't me!" Miles exclaims. "I may have threatened to do it once – once! – but not to him."

"Miles, there's things like timers and fuses you know," Bass points out. "All I know is they had the fire brigade out for hours and I wasn't allowed to see you for a week. And I had to go to counselling, too, because they thought I was traumatised. Well. I was. But just because I thought they were going to put you in a prison. And the school counsellor was worried when I started asking what things other than arson could lead to you being arrested because they thought I was going to do them just to be with you."

Which he was.

"…oh, that fucking counselling!" Miles says, remembering. "That woman made me do all sorts of weird tests. To start off with I played along, but by the end I just kept giving her random answers to make her mad."

His eyes go a little distant. "Good thing they seal all your juvenile records, really. Otherwise I'd never have gotten into the Marines. Which would have been very unfair because I'd calmed down by that point."

"…This is you 'calmed down'?" Ollie asks.

"…Do you see anything on fire that shouldn't be?" Miles replies, with an oddly dark little look, even if only for a second.

Ollie backs off slightly more. "…Touché."

"At least you didn't get diagnosed as insane," Bass points out. "Which was totally unfair. I was not insane. I was just bored."

"Yeah, but then we convinced everyone you _were_ insane," Miles remembers. "That was a fun week…"

"…There is something _really_ wrong with you two," Ollie says.

"Not according to the DuBois County Juvenile Health Board!" Miles points out. "Apparently we were just… in need of more structure."

"Yeah, when I started foaming at the mouth and head-butting the furniture and insisting I would only eat foods in primary colours?" Bass licks his lips. "I got to eat a lot of M&Ms for a few days, before they decided I was just acting up for attention and they let me back out."

Miles laughs. "And then I convinced Andy you'd broken out because you wanted to eat him… fuck, it's no wonder he had a breakdown, is it?"

"I wonder what happened to him?" Bass asks. "Kentucky-Fried-Andy… god. I bet he can't even watch baseball on the…" And then Bass stops. No one is watching baseball on the TV. Not any more.

"…I heard he became a dentist," Miles says, before the mood can drop. "Richie Hynes found him on that Facething, and it said he was a dentist. In New Jersey."

"…Facething..?" Ollie repeats, head in her hands.

"Book," Bass corrects him. "Miles, I know you know what it was called because I know you used to use my account to spy on people."

"I did not!" Miles insists, looking scandalised. "Except that one time when we got drunk at New Year's. Which doesn't count because of all the whisky. And the vodka. And that horrible aniseed thing. I don't even know what the fuck that was."

"Absinthe?" Bass asks. "And you did. I know you did. And I know you poked people too. I suppose I should just be glad you didn't know enough to sign my email up for crap."

"…That was absinthe? Well, it was fucking horrible, whatever it was."

Now Miles gives Bass a Look. It is hard to give a man a Look when you have an arm draped around him and are planning to drag him off to a tent and fuck him very soon. But somehow he manages it. "I really hated the internet," is all he will say to this.

"Yeah, well, 'that horrible aniseed thing' did make you dance around in your boxers for the rest of the night, trying to make out with anything in a skirt…" Bass smiles up at him. "And I know you did. You probably asked Ben to turn the power off so you could go back to living like a feral wild man. Maybe it was your plan all along."

"I did not!" Miles insists. "I had no idea that Ben was doing anything of the sort until he called me, two minutes before all the fucking lights went out!"

…which Jeremy and Ollie don't know about. Well. _Didn't_ know about. Miles stares at them both.

"…wait… what?" Ollie manages.

Even Jeremy stirs. "…he called you… because…?"

Bass cringes into Miles. Fuck.

"…OK. Ah. Look. Maybe I should have told you guys this part before…" Miles says, having the good grace to look a little guilty. "My brother, Ben, the one I'm trying to find? He's a scientist. Worked for some government programme, I don't know what. I'm a fucking soldier, I don't do the science stuff. Anyway. Right before the Blackout… I mean _moments_ before… he called me. Told me exactly what was going to happen. And then… well, then it did."

Possibly not the best way for them to find out. But. It's done.

"… _People_ did this?" Ollie whispers. " _Americans_ did this? That's just… _fuck_ …"

"Uhm… you thought it was by accident?" Bass asks. "I mean… seriously?"

"Well, no, but…" Ollie carries on staring. "I thought maybe terrorists or… I don't know. It's not exactly like there was any kind of precedent… But… it was _your_ brother?"

"Not _just_ my brother," Miles says, defensively. "And I don't think he… they… meant to do it. I think something went wrong. Believe me, when we find him… it's one of the first things I'll ask."

"…can he turn it back on?" Jeremy asks.

"I have no idea," Miles answers. "I guess if he could… he would have done it by now."

And that's why he sat in Port Royal for eight weeks before giving up and leaving. He was waiting. Waiting to see if Ben would fix everything.

But he didn't.

"Well… maybe he needs our help," Bass suggests. "Maybe he doesn't have… I don't know… some science shit he needs."

"Maybe," Miles says. "Maybe this can be fixed. I don't know."

What would even happen if the lights came back on? Could the world go back to the way it was?

…would he _want_ it to?

Bass can tell Miles is feeling more pensive, so he wraps his arm tightly around his waist. "We have to find him first," he points out. "We can worry about the other shit later."

"Yeah. So long as he's OK… and Rachel and the kids… that's what matters. The rest… can come after."

Miles misses them. Before the Blackout, he hadn't seen Ben for months. But somehow… it's different when you _can't_ see someone anymore.

Bass reaches up to kiss at his jaw. "It'll be fine, Miles. Rachel's tough. And Ben's smart. They will be fine. They will probably laugh at you when you turn up to rescue them… a year later…"

"A thousand miles is a long way! And we got distracted en route! And… fuck it, he's going to laugh at me."

"He'll probably appreciate the sentiment," Ollie suggests. Still a little shocked by all this.

"You got a little lost in a snowstorm, a little gay in a snowstorm, you wandered around trying to work out how to kill rabbits, you decided to play Robin Hood or some shit saving people in woods and then you decided to wage a war against a genocidal maniac. Yeah. He's gonna laugh." Bass' smile is nothing but warm though.

"Athos," Jeremy blurts out.

Bass just looks at Jeremy, then at Ollie. He still doesn't get it.

"I am _still_ not D'Artagnan!" Ollie insists, hitting Jeremy on the shoulder.

"…You two really need some kind of professional help," is all Miles will say to this. Because. He has gotten a little distracted along the way… but he doesn't regret it. He hopes Ben will understand.

"Ow!" Jeremy says, rubbing it but not retaliating. "Fine. You're _Dogtanian_."

"…are you sure you're not fucking?" Bass asks, but then throws his hands up in defence before anyone yells at him, too.

"You take that back this instant!" Ollie squeaks, hitting Jeremy again. Still very ineffectually. "And no. We are not fucking. So… there."

"But you would be such a cute dog…" Jeremy says, vaguely trying to block the whacks but not really. "And your nose does go bright red when you're pissed off…"

"Maybe we should leave them to it," Bass suggests. "They've gone nerd again."

"I know," Miles whispers back. "It's scary. It's like they're a different species or something."

He glances over at their tent, which is a reasonably safe distance from the main campfire. And even further from the other tent.

They're learning.

He tilts his head at it. "You want to… call it a night?"

Bass leans up to speak into his ear. "You want to fuck me so hard I see stars?" he asks in return. A hand on his knee… squeezing.

"I want to fuck you so hard you _can't_ see," Miles whisper-growls back. Tightening his arm around the other man.

Bass slides that hand from his knee… higher. His breath catching at those words. "I've been raw and wanting all day, Miles. Please… I think I've waited long enough?"

" _I know I have_ ," Miles breathes in his ear.

He glances over at the other two, who are now having a furious debate as to whether dropping a flaming steampunk zeppelin on Notre Dame constituted an appropriate embellishment to Robert Dumas' classic tale of swordsmanship and derring do. Or something.

"First one back to the tent gets to go on top?" Bass suggests.

And then he's up and running. Yelling a "Goodnight!" over his shoulder.

Miles doesn't even bother with the 'goodnight.' He's up and running flat-out in seconds – and the man really _can_ run fast when he tries. He catches up just before they both reach the tent, mainly because he opts to fling himself forwards onto Bass and send them both crashing to the ground.

Bass is laughing like a lunatic already. And on some level he realises they should maybe wait until they're at least in the tent but… fuck it. Miles has him pinned bodily down and he uses what little leverage he has to grind up against him. "I think I still won!"

Which is when Miles draws his knife and pushes it up against Bass' neck. "Did you, now?" he whispers. Trying to make sure the other two won't be able to see, if they're foolish enough to look.

Bass moans lowly, offering his throat. "Yes," he whispers. "But I'm willing to concede the victory. Because I'm gracious."

"You're willing to 'concede the victory' because you've spent the entire day _aching_ for me to fuck you," Miles points out. "Now _get in the tent_ before I make you wait even longer."

"That's beside the point," Bass grouches. "And I can't. You're on top of me."

"And I will be again, in a moment," Miles growls, but does lift up off him, moving the knife aside after one quick stroke over his throat.

"You better be," Bass throws back. But he's not really feeling uppity. He just wants a brief show of bravado before he bends over. He pushes up and darts inside the tent before anything else can be said.

And when Miles gets inside, he will find Bass is already yanking his trousers down around his knees, wanting to be ready as fast as possible.

Miles is in after him, pulling the flap firmly shut (because he's not stupid) and then starting to tug his own clothes off as rapidly as he can, helping Bass do the same, bit by bit until they're both naked. Which is when Miles pounces all over again (which requires a lot of care inside a tent, especially whilst holding a knife), pushing Bass down on his back and pinning him, blade over his throat.

"Oh, you want it quick, don't you?" he growls. "You've spent all day waiting for this. All day anticipating the moment I'd throw you down on your back and fuck your warped little brains out. Don't even _try_ to deny it."

Bass' hands go for Miles'. Not to hold them back. But because he wants to hold on. He lifts his legs and wraps them around Miles' waist, trying to grind hard against him and point out that he is very much ready.

"Why would I?" Bass asks. "I've wanted you to fuck me since this morning when you put the knife to my throat." Pushing down again to emphasise the point. "Miles… _General_ … please… please will you fuck me? I'll make it good. I will."

Miles' eyes go dark. "Will you, now? I could draw this out, you know. Torment you for ages. Make you wait. Make you beg. Make you _crazy_ with how badly you need it…"

He strokes the knife over Bass' throat, silver flashing in the low light. Looking like he could quite happily make good on that threat.

Bass grabs Miles' face with both his hands, his eyes… suddenly worried. "Please… please don't… you did that already… you made me wait all fucking day and made me be nice and I even spoke to people and I did everything right… Miles… please…" He jams harder against Miles' crotch. "How can I convince you to fuck me?"

This makes Miles laugh, soft and deadly. "How indeed?" he whispers. "Tell me. Tell me how much you need it. Make it good, and I'll do it. Otherwise… it's going to be a very, _very_ long night…"

Bass looks almost ready to cry. Fuck. He puts a brave face on it, but he's fretting inside. He gulps. Wants to get this right. Wants to… make Miles happy.

"…I need it so much I could barely hear the words people were saying all day. I need it so much that when Lambo moved too sharply, it made my ass hurt because of how much I needed you in it. I need it so much I think I might scream blue murder if you don't do it. Miles. _Please_. I waited all fucking day. I waited most of my fucking life. For you to wake up and slide your cock into me. For you to realise you needed in me as much as I needed in you. For you to push into my ass like you pushed into my heart. Miles. I have our names carved into my skin twice over. I need you more than I fucking need power. I need you more than I need fucking AIR. SO WOULD YOU PLEASE JUST FUCK ME BEFORE I DIE?"

Miles is _all_ over him at that, kissing him like there's no tomorrow, kissing him until the lack of oxygen makes him see stars and then kissing him again.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, still in control but looking rocked to the core. "Fuck, Bass, I need you too. I love you. I fucking love you."

He drops the knife onto the groundsheet and scrambles in the nearest pack for the lube, pouring some onto his hand and dragging it over his cock – and then pushing two slicked fingers between Bass' legs and straight into him, without pausing.

"Beg me again," he whispers.

Bass kisses him back just as fiercely and hungrily. He's been struggling not to let his low-blur of arousal show all day, but now they're back in their tent he can let the full wave of it hit. And it does hit. It hits hard. A hand on his face, the other on his shoulder. Holding on. Holding on tight.

" _IloveyoutooIloveyoupleaseMiles…_ "

But he doesn't have to wait long before Miles' fingers are back in him. And it feels good. It feels better than good. It feels fucking incredible. His head smacks back onto the ground, and he arches as the sensation rips through him. Pulls him open. Drags his heart to stretch from here to fucking Chicago. "YES!" he yells out, not even caring if the others hear. "FUCK YES! MILES! PLEASE, MILES, PLEASE FUCK ME, PLEASE FUCK ME, I'M ALL YOURS. I NEED YOU IN ME FUCKING NOW!"

Miles doesn't even think about how loud they're being. On one level… he's sort of pleased about it. This whole day has got his alpha side up and part of him… needs to be obvious. Needs to make it clear who's in charge, and what's _his_.

"Yes," he growls. " _Yes_. Mine. _All_ mine. I've needed you all day. Needed to hold you down and fuck your brains out. Needed to know… how much you need me back…"

He fucks Bass hard and quick with those two fingers, finally pulling them free and pushing his legs wider, slipping right in between them and _driving_ his cock into his lover. And it's fucking wonderful. Fucking _perfect_.

"With everything!" Bass insists. "I need you back with everything, Miles. Jesus fucking Christ but I need you I… OH YES PLEASE YES LIKE THAT PLEASE FUCK…"

But when he moves and pushes into him – blunt and stiff and hot and soft and right all at once – Bass howls to the heavens. A hand around the back of Miles' neck for purchase, the other in his hair. Wailing because it feels so fucking good. So fucking right. And he still wants more. "HARDER," he insists. Begs. Both. "PLEASE, MILES, PLEASE FUCK ME HARDER."

And right now… Miles is happy to oblige, pushing up just a little to get purchase and then starting to fuck him as hard as he can, driving deep with every thrust, over and over until he has to go slower… but keeping the movement sharp and rough all the same.

" _Mine_ ," he growls. "My Bass. My lover. My General. You feel _so_ … _fucking_ … _GOOD_."

Bass wants to make it good. Wants to show off. Wants to prove he can be a good lover. But the problem is, Miles is reaming him wide open and it's about all he can do just to hold on. Hold on and let the man push deep inside him. Making his ass tingle and his legs shake. Making his cock slap against his stomach in angry salute. So instead he just tries to ride it. To ride the sharp thrust of his hips. The fierce push of his cock. Tries to tighten around him as much as he can. He wants it to be good for Miles. Because it feels fucking incredible for him.

"Yes," he replies, voice going distant again. Going… down. "Yes… oh yes… yours… I promise… just yours… oh yes… oh yes please yes ohgodfuckyesdon'tstopdon'tstopOHPLEASEYESFUCKMOREYES!"

Miles knows he isn't going to last long like this. Neither of them are. And part of him is well-aware that he ought to draw this out – ought to really take his time. Make Bass beg for it, over and over. Do all of the terribly wicked things he's spent most of the day thinking about. Except, right now… all he wants is to see Bass come undone with pleasure. Feel the man break beneath him. Feel _himself_ break from the sight, the sensation. The way his body shakes with need, and the extra pleasure at knowing he's caused it.

" _Fuck_ , yes, yes, FUCK, BASS, OH FUCK."

Bass locks his eyes on Miles. He's lost in the heat of them. In the fierce, burning love and need. Lost in the power he can see there. He smiles, but he's going further and further out. Down. Away. All the worry and fears moving out, leaving only this in its place. A thumb stroking the back of his neck. A hand finding his shoulder and curling around, palm pressed into the old mark.

"Only for you," Bass whispers. Even though they've been yelling plenty already. "Only for you." And he means more than the fucking. He means… this. The way suddenly something snaps and gives and he's utterly gone. Utterly ready to do anything he asks. Eyes unfocussed as he lets the pleasure wash through him, each wave higher than the last. "…Miles…"

"Bass…" Miles whispers back. Watching him go under, go… _down_ … like this is just… incredible. But more than that… it makes his protective side flare up. He strokes a gentle hand over Bass' jaw, staring at him in wonder. "My Bass. I love you. I've got you. You're all mine."

He presses in, kissing gently up the side of Bass' neck, all the way around to his lips. " _All mine_."

Every little touch feels like it will lie on Bass' skin forever. Feels like Miles is burning lines of ownership that will shimmer in sunlight, and glow in the night. Feels like there's never any going back. Everything is so big. So much… more. So much… bigger. Like his heart is expanding and it's going to explode. He smiles under the kisses. He can hear the 'I love you' in each one. Can tell these are what kisses should be like. Not that he will share them.

"Yes," he echoes, in that lilting, off-colour voice. "Want to make you happy. Want to do what you want. Want to give you everything. Miles. Please. It's yours. Just take it. It's all yours. It always was…"

"You do," Miles whispers. "You do, Bass. You make life worth living."

He pushes a hand down between them, wrapping around Bass' cock and starting to stroke it hard. "And you're hot as _fuck_ when I feel you break underneath me. So do it. Break. Come. Give me _everything_."

Bass had almost forgotten about his own cock. The lovely feeling of Miles in him distracting him from it. But when he grabs it and strokes it, it's suddenly all he can think about. He tries to fuck up into his hand, tries to push into it. Hands tightening on his neck and shoulder.

"OhIwill…Iwill…I…" Eyes going hazy as the heat in his belly coils and winds and growls and suddenly… he's hovering on the edge. Right on the edge. And he doesn't want to go over it because then it will start ending. But Miles has asked him to and with a choked little sound of woe and bliss, he tenses up and then his balls feel like they're growling and then he's yelling Miles' name like a prayer to the heavens as he starts to come.

Miles bites his lip at that, fighting to hold on, wanting to feel Bass come completely undone before he follows him over the edge. And it isn't easy, because he feels so fucking amazing; the way his body shakes, the way he holds on. The edge in his voice and the look in his eyes. It's all so _electric_.

" _Fuck_ ," Miles breathes. "Oh, _fuck_ , Bass… FUCK!"

He doesn't even make it to the end of Bass' climax before a sharp jolt sends him over the edge, and a _wave_ of dark, insane need overtakes. He grabs both of Bass' wrists and slams them back against the ground, holding him down as the pleasure explodes between his own legs; a sharp, white-hot burst of ecstasy that races all the way through him. "FUCK, YES, BASS!"

Bass' eyes go wide at the look on Miles' face, and it's like a punch to the gut. It knocks him sideways, and it feels like he's been slammed to the floor from standing. He surrenders his wrists – surrenders everything – just trying his best to push down on him, trying to get Miles in him as deep as it's possible to go. The hot, sticky feeling of him coming inside, marking him all the way as Miles'. Branding him where no-one else has ever touched. No one else ever could. It feels so good he cries out again, wordless but joyful.

And when he's done, he's trying to reach to kiss his neck, jaw, cheek… anywhere he can reach. A gush of affection that threatens to drown him if he doesn't show it.

His own climax finally abated, Miles drops down against Bass, wrapping tight around him and just holding on. He's shaking bodily; the adrenaline comedown rather more intense than usual, and the need still as strong as ever.

"Fuck," he whispers, "fuck, you feel amazing, so amazing, oh Bass, I love you, I've got you, I've got you…"

Bass doesn't even move his hands immediately, not sure he should. Instead he just pushes his face into the crook of Miles' neck. He feels heavy and sated and relaxed and… good. Good in a way he never knew he needed til he got it.

"Thank you, Miles… thank you…"

"Shhh," Miles whispers, rolling them both onto their sides and wrapping Bass in close, against his chest. "You don't have to thank me. Having you in my arms is thanks enough…"

"I do," Bass insists, and takes that as an invitation to move his own arms to hold on. "I do. Fuck. Fuck I needed that. So fucking badly."

"I know. I know. Me too. I don't know how I managed to wait all day…"

Even if it was also fun. In a warped sort of a way.

"I hope they don't hate us," Bass says, sounding a little worried. "I would hate us."

"I don't think they hate us," Miles answers. "I think… it's a little difficult for them, because of how perfect this is, but… they're not like that…"

"Jeremy sounded like he hated us," Bass points out. "He went off into the forest like you do when you want to kill things, and I think the most he ever killed was time…"

"…He doesn't hate us," Miles insists, although in truth he's still not sure exactly what is going on with Jeremy. "He was just feeling a little… single."

"Well, it's not my fault Ollie is shy and doesn't want to have sex yet. Maybe he will in a few years if I stop trying to play matchmaker?"

"Maybe so. Wait… Ollie definitely is into guys, then? We really do just attract the gay ones?"

"Apparently. But he hasn't really had a boyfriend yet. Which sort of figures 'cause he's still a kid. I just… they geek off so much and… I didn't want them spending years not enjoying themselves like we did… but apparently I was still being a dick even with that." Bass sighs. "I was trying to be nice."

"I don't think you were being a dick. And I don't think they do, either. I think… they just need time to work it out." Miles reaches to trace fingertips over the mark on Bass' shoulder, stroking it gently. "I know how that feels."

The touch makes Bass' eyes unfocus and all thought just go out of his head. He moans loudly, the little contact making his balls heavy even though he knows he's way too exhausted for more just yet.

" _Ohfuckyesyes…_ "

That gets him a smile in return, and another slow stroke over the mark… and then an idea clearly crosses Miles' mind, because he nips at Bass' lips and pulls back – and out – before rolling him gently onto his stomach and slipping on top of him, pinning him down.

"But I _did_ work it out," he says, voice low and full of meaning, though no threat. "And now… you're all mine."

And he starts to kiss slowly over the mark, soft and gentle, tongue darting out to trace along one of the mostly-white lines.

Bass makes a tiny little sound of protest when Miles pulls out of him, but that quickly ends when he gets back on top of him. His weight is comforting and grounding and every place they touch is warm and right. He puts his hands over his head and drops his head down. Eyes closed and breathing slow.

"Y-yes… yours… oh fuck yes, Miles… yours for anything you fucking want… I fucking love you… OH GOD YES, yes… oh please… yes…"

The man sounds back out of his head. Delirious with pleasure at the touches. At the way it reminds him. Reminds him of a promise finally sealed in blood and screaming. One started many years ago.

He's so fucking incredible like this, and for a moment… Miles just lets himself enjoy it. Lets those delicious words course through his mind, through his blood, teasing at the lingering heat in his groin, even though there's no way he can act on it for a while yet.

"Yes," he whispers, in between laying gentle kisses against the M. His M. _Their_ M. "Yes. I've got you. _Fuck_ , you feel wonderful… I love you so much…"

Bass claws at the groundsheet in frustration. It feels so good it's hard to stay still. But Miles owns him. Literally. And if he wants him to stay down and underneath… he will do.

"Please don't stop," he begs. "Please… please… just… just touch me all night. I think I might die if you stop." It's like the worst and best drug in the world. He knows giving it up would kill him. More than any narcotic. It would destroy his heart as well as his body. And the realisation of it – and the momentary fear – makes him shudder and go pale.

"I won't stop," Miles promises. "I love you. I love you more than anything. More than everything. You feel… you _are_ … home."

He traces the mark with his tongue again, all four lines this time, stroking down Bass' side with one hand. Wanting… not to overload him with pleasure, but certainly to envelop him with it.

Bass cries out again, his mind whiting out under the touches. Every time he surfaces and goes back down, he goes down further. Further and further into the dark. Further and further into Miles.

"You're all I have!" he blurts out. The filter is now completely gone, and he'd likely answer anything Miles asked. "All I have… Miles… oh… oh god… without you I'd be dead… Miles, fuck, you're everything, everything… please don't leave me don't ever leave me please just stay with me I'd have killed myself and I don't want to, I don't. I want _you_."

The words hit like an express train and it's all Miles can do to just try to cover Bass completely, holding him tight, kissing the back of his neck. "I won't, I won't, I promise. I've got you, you're safe, you're _always_ safe, it's all right… you have me, Bass, you have me…"

He really didn't mean to provoke anything like this, and he's a little alarmed at having done it nonetheless. He keeps laying gentle kisses against Bass' back, hands stroking over him, trying to soothe out the fear.

"Yes… oh god yes… not just fucking, Miles… fuck… not just fucking it's… it's…" Bass whimpers. "It's everything. Miles. It's everything." He is vaguely aware he's ranting and making little sense. It's just that everything in the world seems to be pressing in on him with Miles the only thing there to protect him. "Please just… please just hold me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"I know, I know, it's all right," Miles whispers. He presses one last kiss to the mark on Bass' shoulder and slips off him, rolling the man onto his side and gathering him back into his arms, crushing him in tight. "I have you. I'm here. You'll never be alone, Bass, I promise. _I promise_."

Bass grabs Miles' arms and holds on for dear life. He doesn't quite know what to say so – for once – he doesn't. Just… holds on like it's the only thing in the world he can do.

"Relax. It's all right. I have you. And you have me."

Miles curls in tighter still, almost tight enough to hurt, wanting to push out the fear. Alarmed at how easily he's provoked it, without even trying.

"I know," Bass says, in a quiet little voice. "I know. I just… I… I thought of a world without you and I panicked."

"I know," Miles tells him. "But it's all right. I'm here."

He takes Bass' hand, lifting it to press over his own heart. "I'm here. So don't be afraid. I'm here, and together… we'll be unstoppable."

Bass strokes his fingers over Miles' skin, eyes closing. "Yes. You're right. If we can get this… we can get anything. I… I don't know why I… I don't know why I suddenly freaked out. I think… I think when you… when I go… down… something fucking happens to my head. I don't understand it."

"Me neither," Miles says, thinking for a moment about how it feels. Thinking back to the last time he was… down. "But I know what you mean. I think… it makes all the walls collapse inside. So the thoughts that are already there just sort of… get out."

Which makes Bass cringe. "…sorry. If… if I say things I shouldn't."

"I didn't mean that. Bass… you can tell me anything you want to. You know that. You have _always_ been able to do that. Whatever you need to say… I'll listen."

"I… I know but…" Bass shrugs. "You don't need to hear how fucked up I am. How… how… I mean it's not fair to put all that on you."

Miles grips Bass' jaw at that, suddenly fierce. "Bass. You ever hold out on me and I'll fucking _beat_ it out of you. There is nothing – nothing – I want you to hold back on telling me. I'm your best friend and your lover. So don't you dare hold back. Anything you're carrying… I'll carry it with you."

Bass won't look at him for a moment, eyes sliding to his shoulder instead. "It's fucked up, though. I don't… I don't like admitting it. Even if I sometimes do. It's… Miles, I'm not right…"

And that gets him pushed onto his back, pinned down – though gently. "Bass. You're perfect. Don't you dare think otherwise. You're perfect and I fucking love you."

Bass still won't look at him. "If I was… if I was… I wouldn't freak out as much. I wouldn't… I wouldn't lose it just at the thought of you not being around. I… just… forget it. I'll try to stop being so… can we just change the subject?"

"Yes. But… don't you ever be afraid to tell me how you feel. _Ever_."

Miles rolls them back onto their sides and pulls Bass in again. "We should make it to Murton by about midday tomorrow. How do you think we should play it? Subtle or… not so subtle?"

"You mean… us or the recruitment?" Bass asks. Cuddling in tight, and glad for the change of subject.

Miles laughs. "The recruitment. I was thinking we should take it slow, to begin with. See where people's loyalties lie. What they know about Franklin and how they react to his name. They might leap at the chance to fight against him, but more likely… they'll be cautious."

"Yeah. Because we could be anyone. I mean. We aren't known around here and we could even be spies for him. We should… just see what people know and think, first. Maybe… stay around for a few days, get our faces known?"

"That would work best," Miles agrees. "We take it slow, talk to people, get a feel for things… then decide how we proceed."

"We won't be able to build an army straight off. I mean… we might find a few people who would join us but if too many were trailing around with us we'd never get to Chicago, either… and it would be hard to feed us all…"

"Yeah… better to build up small pockets of support in towns but leave them in place," Miles says, thinking about it more carefully. "Then, once we've found Ben, once I know he and Rachel and the kids are all safe… then we can start returning to these towns. Picking up the people we left behind. Who… may even be able to build up more support in our absence."

"Sounds good. I mean. We'll need supplies and safe places. We… will need to be careful that no one sells us out, though. I don't know how we'll avoid that. If we piss him off enough we'll be public enemies number one, two, three and four."

"We… play it subtle. Only tell the plan to people we come to trust. There's going to be risks involved but… there have to be, if we're going to make this work."

"Yeah but eventually word will get back. So. We do need to be really fucking careful. We're trained. I don't just mean in fighting. Ollie and Jeremy… they're not. If they… if… if they got taken then…" Bass shudders. "Are we just gonna pretend we're traders and travellers?"

"For the most part, yes," Miles says. "We can say we travel around teaching people survival skills and defensive combat – just because it's useful – in return for supplies and lodging. Gives us cover to be teaching people without it looking suspicious."

"And potentially train recruits for Franklin?" Bass frowns. "I don't want his people to be any stronger than they already are, Miles…"

"I guess we have to take that risk. If we don't teach people… we'll never be able to build up an army. We just have to do all we can to pick people who will be more sympathetic to us than to him."

Bass considers this for a moment, then relents. "Yeah. I guess. And he can train them, too, when he recruits them. But if we don't help people to stay in their homes then they will be more likely to agree to whatever he wants of them."

"Exactly. We have to be the better alternative. We have to show people we trust them and are willing to give them a chance – and then they're more likely to trust _us_ and give _us_ a chance."

"I just hope to fuck we don't make things worse, is all. Not that I know how it could be worse." Bass' smile is lopsided. "We're not exactly… the most together and reliable of people, huh?"

Miles laughs just a little, very wryly. "Well, possibly not. But at least we're trying." He strokes along Bass' collarbone. "We can do this. I know we can. And think of the difference we can make if it works out."

"Yeah. I mean. A real difference. Not that we didn't do good stuff before but… maybe we could be even better, now." Leaning against Miles' hand. "This could be what we were put on the planet for."

"To be riotously gay and teach people to fight?" Miles says, and then laughs again, pulling him in. "Yeah. But you're right. We did good before. I didn't fight for this country abroad just to forget about it right here."

"I don't believe in karma or religion or shit like that… but… it's nice to have… a purpose. I mean. Other than you. You're a pretty good purpose, but fuck… if doing this makes you horny like Allentown did then I'm sold twice over." Of course he's in it for selfish reasons too. Who wouldn't be?

And that… makes Miles' eyes go dark. He knows on some level it's wrong… but if it's just for them… why the fuck should that matter? "Well, it might," he points out, voice low and full of possibility. "You know how I get after a good fight…"

Bass peers down at Miles' cock, his tongue sneaking out over his lips. "Yeah." His voice is slightly rough with memory. "You fuck like a fucking demon. And you scream like a bitch in heat when I fuck you."

Miles slams Bass onto his back again without blinking, pinning him down. "Yeah. And you fucking _love_ it. You made me this way. I never used to be so loud until you got your hands on me."

"Of course I love it," Bass crows. "And you never used to be this loud because you were fucking the wrong people. It's like speaking a foreign fucking language. No matter how many times you say 'give me a fucking beer' in foreign it's never quite the same as 'GIVE ME A FUCKING BEER'…" He grinds against Miles' crotch. "So you better fucking keep doing it. Because no one else in the world turns me on like you do. Fuck, Miles. No one was _ever_ going to fuck my ass but you."

"Oh, I'll keep doing it," Miles promises. "The screaming, and the fucking. I don't ever want to stop. I _won't_ ever stop."

He pushes Bass down harder, pinning his hands and pushing them up above his head, eyes going darker. "Not even if you beg me to…"

Bass' eyes are equally dark and hungry, but he just… submits. Not fighting back one bit.

"Do you want me to?" he asks. "Do you want me to beg you to stop? Do you want me to ask you not to fuck me? Until I can't take it any more and I scream yes?"

That… isn't what Miles was pushing for, and the thought sort of makes his stomach jump… and other places ache. He's confident he shouldn't say yes. That it would be… wrong, somehow. That it's too twisted, too messed-up, too… what? Why is it wrong if they both want it?

"Maybe I do," he admits, softly – but not letting go. "Would you like that? Like me to just… _take_ you?"

Bass' mouth feels dry. Like it'll never feel right again. His ass and his cock feeling… heavy. Leaden. Hungry. And his heart skipping several beats at the look in Miles' eyes.

Struck dumb, he nods. Just once. But it's enough.

It's wrong. It's so wrong. Maybe that's why Miles wants it so much, now that the thought is in his head.

So wrong.

He moves _fast_ , pulling away just enough to flip Bass over onto his stomach, grabbing one arm and yanking it up behind his back, whilst simultaneously kicking his legs apart and slipping in between them… and fuck, but he's hard again now.

Bass starts to struggle. He doesn't want to, not really. He wants to give Miles anything he asks for. But Miles wants him to fight, so he screams in terror at how fucking good this feels, and he's trying to kick, to get on his knees, to wrench his arm free and drag nails over Miles with the other.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME! STOP! NO! I DON'T WANT YOU TO FUCK ME! STOP! STOP! I DON'T WANT IT!"

He hasn't even realised that if – hah – the other two can hear this… it's not going to sound good at _all_. All he knows is he's as hard as he can remember feeling since… well. Allentown. And it's only going to get worse.

Fuck but that's so… hot. Wrong! No. Well, yes. But that just makes it hotter. Miles slams Bass down hard enough to smack him into the ground, then clamps his free hand over the other man's mouth.

"You don't have a _choice_ , you little slut, so I suggest you stop fighting before I have to hurt you," he growls. "I am going to fuck your brains out right here and there is _nothing_ you can do to stop me."

He takes his hand off Bass' mouth and uses it to lace through his hair, yanking his head back, leaning in to growl in his ear. "But if you're very, _very_ good, I won't have to hurt you _too_ badly…"

The smack into the floor winds Bass, and leaves him struggling to breathe. The hand over his mouth just making the air in his lungs feel even hotter. Making the animal parts of his brain fritz and take over. He screams into it, as Miles growls at him. Screams out in fear and rage and lust.

And gasps in as much air as he can when his mouth is free. All the better to snap back at him. "Don't you fucking dare! I'm not your whore! My ass isn't for fucking! Get the fuck off me you sick, fucking, twisted maniac! Get the FUCK OFF ME."

He tries to push up with his free hand. But Miles is in too good a position, and he falls back down. So he tries to slam his legs back together. Tries pushing up on his toes to crawl away. And then there's flashes of the first time… the first time Miles was inside him. It wasn't all that dissimilar. Except he wanted it. Asked for it. It would be easy to imagine it going some other way… easy to think of his virgin ass being…

"NO! NO, NO, NO!"

But he can't get up, and he's stuck underneath him. And he loves that, too, because he knows it won't be long before Miles is back inside him. Where he belongs. Protest or no…

Miles slams him back down hard again, using the few seconds' grace this earns him to snatch up his knife and press it firmly over Bass' throat.

"Stop fighting," he growls. "You can't stop this. You can't stop _me_. The more you struggle… the more it's going to hurt."

He pushes the knife in even further, enough that Bass will be left with no choice but to arch back a little. "But you'll be begging me, before the end," Miles adds, in a low whisper. "You'll beg for my cock. For my knife. For even the lightest touch of my hand. _And you know it_."

"No!" Bass throws back, but the undercurrent of need, of desire colours his voice. Makes it waver at the end. He arches the bare minimum he can to cope with the knife at his throat. "No… you sick, sick fuck… isn't there anyone you can convince to spread their legs? You have to force yourself on someone? Is it because you suck?"

Because he wants it to. Wants it to hurt. Wants it to ruin him. As much as he wants to beg for all of the other things.

That gets the arm behind his back yanked up sharply again. "Oh, but I don't want just _anyone_. I want _you_. I want that fucking delicious body of yours writhing and _broken_ beneath me. I want your ass. Want your lips. Want _everything_ … and I'm going to take it all…"

He slams Bass' legs wide apart again, and this time, he moves to push his now archingly-hard cock into the man all at once – and though it's easy, because it's not the first time he's done it tonight, he still makes sure to be far rougher than necessary. Wanting him to feel it. Wanting to make him scream.

And Bass does scream. He screams a sound that would curdle water. Screams out his shock and his horror (mostly at his own sick, sick mind… and Miles' too). Screams out at how rough it feels… and how good. How raw and wonderful. "FUCK!"

And he writhes. He writhes a lot. Because it feels fucking great. Although he'll forcibly deny that's the reason.

Miles presses the knife in close again. " _Fuck_ , you feel good. You like that, you little slut? Are you ready to give me everything? Ready to open up and take it like the whore you are?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, starting to fuck Bass hard, pounding into him for a moment before slowing again and moving the knife, leaning in to breathe hotly over the mark on the other man's shoulder. "You'll beg me, before the end," he whispers. "I promise you that."

And bites his shoulder. Hard.

"Nononononono–FUCK!" The litany of nos ending the minute Miles bites him. And then he can't. Can't deny it any more. Can't deny that the harsh, evil, wonderful cock in his ass and warm, sharp kiss of blade on his throat are what he wants and needs. Needs. Not wants.

"YESYESYESYESYES!" he screams out, pushing back as much as he can. As much as he dares. " _YES_."

" _Yes_ ," Miles echoes, utterly triumphant. "Yes. Beg me. Tell me how much you need it. Tell me how much you _want_ it. Beg me to fuck your sick, sick brains out… and I _will_."

Fuck, but this is so, so fucked up. So fucked up and so utterly wonderful, and all Miles knows is that he's so hard it hurts and there's no room for guilt when he feels so fucking good.

"NO!" Bass objects. "No… no I won't! I… I won't! Fuck! No!" Saying he enjoys something is one thing. Begging for more… is another.

Miles slams roughly into him. "You will," he growls. "You fucking _will_."

He moves the knife and pushes Bass down against the ground, holding his head in place with his knife hand and using it as purchase to fuck him brutally hard. Biting his lip at how twistedly good it feels.

Bass wails, because it feels… it feels… wonderful. Harsh and brilliantly bright. And at the same time, as dark as the secrets inside him. The twisted little fantasies. Each one fulfilled the minute they cross his lips. It's like he has only to whisper what he wants, and Miles gives it to him.

He rides the waves of his cock, feeling it press inside and tease his dick with each thrust home. And he tries to hold on. He does. He really, really does.

"…please…" he whispers, "…please…"

" _Louder_ ," Miles growls at him. "Like you _mean_ it."

He slows the movements of his hips, but punctuates those words with another rough thrust, before moving to trace the knife over Bass' back – hard enough to hurt, but not enough to cut him.

Bass cries out in shocked bliss at both. He wishes the fucking was faster. Wishes the knife cut deeper. " _Please_ ," he hisses. "Please. Just… please…"

"I know what you need," Miles whispers suddenly, not so much a threat as a… secret? "I can hear it in your voice." I can feel it in the way you react beneath the blade, beneath my hands. I know it… because I would feel it too. "So beg me… and I'll give it to you."

And he punctuates this with a stroke of the knife over Bass' shoulder. Just to make the point even clearer.

Bass won't. He won't. He won't say it. Won't beg for it. Won't demand it.

But the slow, gentle strokes of the knife and…

"…hurt… me…" he begs.

Miles' eyes go dark, even though Bass can't see. "Say _please_ ," he whispers, still stroking the knife over and over and over…

Bass slams his eyes shut, and tries to push his face into the ground. He wants it to swallow him up. Wants it to eat him whole. Wants… wants…

"PLEASE!" he blurts out, before he can stop himself again. "Please!"

_Perfect_. Miles kisses Bass' shoulder, stroking the knife down his side and – finally – cutting a thin line about a hand's width above his hip, deep enough to draw blood – and to hurt – but not enough to do him serious damage.

And _fuck_ , fuck… it still feels like pure, raw electricity.

Bass' mind whites out with how good it feels. How it makes his blood sing. Makes every last neuron in his brain fire. Makes his skin scream with ecstasy. And for a moment he makes no sound. His hips snap and then still and there's the longest moments when he doesn't even fucking breathe.

And then he screams at the top of his lungs. " _FUCK. YES. THAT._ "

Fuck, but that feels so good. So, so good.

"That's better," Miles says, leaning in to whisper in Bass' ear. "I told you. I told you'd beg me. Now… beg me to fuck you… or I'll _stop_."

The noise Bass makes is inhuman. That's so not fucking fair. But it's not like he can deny he wants it. Not now.

"Please! Please fuck me! Please fuck me, General, I need you to fuck me so hard I can't _breathe_!"

And that's enough. That's more than enough. That's just… soul-crushingly perfect. Miles doesn't wait; starting to fuck Bass hard, all at once, untwisting the arm from behind his back and grabbing his other, then slamming them both down against the ground, to hold him in place.

" _Yes_ ," he growls. "Yes. You're mine. You're all mine."

Bass doesn't even register that his arm is moved. All he can think about – all he can feel – is the cock ramming into him. Over and over. The weight on his hips. The pressure building like a thunderstorm. Threatening to crack the sky in half at any minute.

"Yes… yes…" Broken little sobs. "Please… oh please don't stop, don't stop… oh god… oh god yes… I'm yours… all yours… I can't escape… I don't want to. I don't want to…"

"That's right. You don't want to. You want me to take you, _use_ you, like the little slut you are. And I will. _I will_."

He throws everything he's got into fucking Bass as hard as he can, now; chasing the result they're both craving, over and over until, with a rough cry, he's coming with all he's got left, riding out every last second.

Bass is nearly crying with how good it feels, with how… ashamed and guilty and happy… "Yes… yes…" Wrecked and ruined and smashed apart. "Oh god yes I am, I am… I'm a slut for you… I'd spread my legs any day you asked, any time… I'd go down on my knees and swallow you whole… oh fuck yes, Miles… anything… anything for you… anything!"

And then Miles is coming in his ass and Bass cries out in shock. And with what little strength he has left, he moves them both so he can rub his dick against the rough ground-sheet. Needing that last little bit of friction… and then coming like the cheap little whore he is. Wailing out Miles' name as he spills in a sticky mess beneath him.

When it's all over, Miles collapses down against Bass, releasing the grip on his hands to wrap around him instead. "Mine," he whispers, roughly. "All mine. Forever. _Fuck_ but you feel so good."

"Yes," Bass echoes, distant and happy. "I am. All. All yours. I couldn't say no to you for long, even if I wanted to. I wouldn't want to. I…" Distantly, he's aware he's back to saying things that normal people keep inside. "I… want you to have even the bits of me I don't like people to see."

"Bass… I have _all_ of you," Miles whispers, kissing the back of his neck, and starting to kiss along the edge of his shoulder, down onto the mark there. "Every last flicker. Every last inch. I have _everything_."

And it's frighteningly wonderful.

He moans quietly, the touches tickling just a little, but also… stroking something deep and painful and perfect inside. Long-buried hurts.

"Please just… hold me… I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake up with you still there… I want to wake up every day to find you there…" A simple need. Just… forever.

"I will… I promise," Miles says, rolling them both onto their sides – still locked together – and pulling Bass in tight. "I've got you. I've always got you. Sleep. And in the morning… I'll remind you all over again…"

Bass turns his head to smile hopefully at him. "I'll hold you to that." Putting his hands on Miles', holding on. He's wiped from a long day, followed by a rough night. And sleep sounds wonderful but he doesn't want to sleep. He needs to, but he doesn't want to.

Miles presses against his back, staying close. Letting his mind start to drift on the sound of the other man's breathing, lulled by it. Outside… the world may be insane, but in here… all is right.

And that is quite something.

***

As Miles and Bass charge off towards their tent, Ollie decides she'd better concede the point about the flaming steampunk zeppelin and distract Jeremy. Before he gets any weirder.

"Come on," she says, as there's a thud in the background. "Come down to the lake with me."

"Okay," Jeremy says, trying his best not to stare after the two men charging off towards their tent. It's probably for the best if they leave them to it.

Before the man can change his mind, Ollie grabs one of the wooden torches, lights it, and sets off down the path to the lake. Knowing, from how… wound up the other two men looked… that it's probably wise to be far away from them right now.

Hands slung in the pockets of his chinos, Jeremy follows her. He doesn't feel like talking much. Not… not know he knows the other two are… stop it! Stop it. He scolds himself, but it still doesn't work.

"Trying to distract me from my misery?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, stopping beside the darkening water and looking out at it. "That's what straight best friends are for. Although…"

There's a question on her mind, and she has to ask it, even if it probably isn't so distracting. "…Are you going to tell me what was going on before? You stormed off down here, Miles followed you, and when you came back… you were _weird_ , Jeremy."

"We… had a talk. And. He nearly knocked me out. But then it sort of was fine." Which is most of the story. His cheeks are pink though, when he says it. "So it's okay."

"…Jeremy. You were _weird_ ," Ollie repeats, turning to stare at him. "You just sort of… hung off his every word…"

"I didn't! I… I was just glad he wasn't kicking me out, or kicking my ass, okay!" One arm over his chest, the other holding it. Eyes darting about for the nearest exit point again.

"You said he nearly knocked you out," Ollie says, the words having filtered through now, leaving her a little nervous. "What happened?"

"I… uh… forgot… Marines like to kill people… and… uhm… I kind of moved a bit too fast in his direction." Which is also embarrassing to admit.

"So it was… self-defence? I guess that's…" It's a little more reassuring, at least where Miles is concerned. But it still doesn't answer what the hell is going on with Jeremy. "…You forgot?" Ollie pushes. "Really? Or… were you… were you trying to provoke him?"

She doesn't want to say what she's thinking. Partly because isn't something she understands properly, and partly because she doesn't know if Jeremy is even conscious of it or not.

Jeremy's eyes narrow. "No. I forgot. I wanted a hug. Because I thought we… I thought we'd made up and I forgot he would try to kill me. Because normal people do not try to kill you. If you want a hug."

"Nothing about that man is normal," Ollie points out, glancing up the hill when there's a particularly loud yell in the distance. Thank fuck she thought to come down here in time. "But you… Jeremy…"

Damn it, she's going to have to say it. "…Look. When you came back to the camp? You were… I don't even know how it works or anything but you were _under_."

The words sort of… hit like a punch to the gut. He staggers under the weight of them. Looking anywhere but at Ollie.

For a long time, he can't even reply. Can't say a word. He wants to deny it. Wants to refuse it. Wants to tell her she's being ridiculous.

Even if it's true.

"…we didn't do anything," is as far as he can get.

"I know," Ollie tells him, gently. "But it doesn't change the fact that you were…" She trails off, slightly too nervous to say it again. It's so… big. A whole other world she knows so little about. "…Did he say something to you? Or was it just… accidentally getting yourself hit..?"

"It wasn't anything, Ollie. I was just… high strung. And. I guess I needed to not be high strung. And then I wasn't. So it's okay. But it won't happen again." Yeah. Right.

Now he's admitting it… even to her… he knows that's likely a lie. He's a natural follower. And both of them are natural leaders.

"…maybe I was right and I should just go…"

"Don't you dare, you idiot," Ollie says at once, looking a little scared at the thought. "They may be very one-track-minded but they'd be devastated if you went. And I… I don't know what I'd do…"

"Well. You could come with me. I know I'm not a Marine but I know enough about staying alive now. We could… I don't know… go somewhere not Chicago…"

But even as he says it, he can hear the heaviness in his voice. The way he doesn't really want to go. The way he wants… to stay.

He drops down and sits by the side of the water. "…what the fuck do I do?"

Ollie goes over and sits beside him, dropping the flaming torch onto the ground nearby, where it sputters and then carries on burning against the cold pebbles.

"You could tell them," she says, but she knows it probably wouldn't be the best move. "Or… you carry on as normal. Brush it off. Try… not to let it happen again."

He snorts. "What, exactly, would I say? Come on. You know what they're like. It's already weird enough that they're… and I'm… but if they knew I was… well it would be bad."

"…I don't know," Ollie admits. "I guess you just have to decide what you want and…"

She trails off, dropping her head. "I don't know. I'm probably not the best person to be asking. I am only nineteen after all, and just know about this stuff because it was on the internet. I just… don't like to see you upset."

Jeremy laughs. "Like I'm any better? I mostly looked stuff up online and the few times I did brave any clubs or events I chickened out of actually… you know. Doing anything. More than watching for a few minutes before I felt like some creepy stalker. Fuck… I don't know what I want. Well. I do. But I can't have it. So I just have to… I just have to pretend nothing happened and hope to fuck everything stops being weird soon…"

"It probably will," Ollie says. "But if you… if you want to talk about it – I mean, ever – I'm here. And I'm not really an expert but I'm not stupid and I care about you so… whatever I can do, I will."

If nothing else, you've saved me twice over already. So I owe you more than one.

"Thanks but I think I would rather the ground swallowed me whole…" His laugh is a little bitter. "I guess you can tell which side my bread is buttered on. It's certainly not the top. And… well… it's… hard. To. Uhm. Find someone. When… when you're naturally inclined to like bastards who are naturally inclined to walk the fuck all over you."

Ollie puts her arms around him and hugs him tight. "For what it's worth… I don't think they do it out of malice. I think they're just a bit… blinkered. I'm not saying that excuses it, just… it's better than it being deliberate…"

"…I didn't mean them," he says, leaning against her. "I meant… I meant before. I mean… I have… kind of… I have a specific… uh. Type. Which even if you were a dude and into dudes and the right age… er…"

You wouldn't be my type. At all. And now he is flushing.

It's a little scary to hear him actually say it, even though Ollie knows what Jeremy means. She nods, carefully. "…I know."

He shudders, and pulls himself in tighter.

"…it's probably best I don't… I mean… I know you… it's not right," he finally settles on.

Ollie curls up a little and nods. "OK. Well. I'm here if you want to talk. About this, or just anything. So. Uhm. Yeah. Maybe… try not to provoke Miles into hitting you again anytime soon?"

"I… didn't mean to!" Jeremy says, defensively. "I wanted a hug. It's not my fault the man is a raving psychopath and he nearly knocked me out!"

"…I don't think Miles _does_ hugs," Ollie points out. Other than when he's draped all over Bass, of course. Though that's different, and plus she's smart enough not to say it out loud.

"I… well I get that now." Jeremy's tone is a little dry. "I was just a bit… stressed."

"I know." Ollie reaches to grip his hand. "Maybe next time talk to me, instead? I think possibly I'm the sane one."

"He stalked me! It wasn't my fault. I was trying to get away and he STALKED me! I was trying to give him space!" It's possible he's still a little stressed.

"…I know that," Ollie says. She does. She grips Jeremy's hand tighter. "It will be OK."

"Really? Because from where I'm sitting it's just getting worse and worse and… oh fuck. Bass is going to kill me, isn't he?"

"Uhm… I don't think Bass is going to kill you. I don't think he noticed pretty much of anything beyond what Miles said to him."

"But when he comes to he will… and he will kill me then," Jeremy insists. "I know he will. He will be pissed off."

"He won't. He's worried about you. He pretty much admitted it outright, when he was talking to me. When… uh… you and Miles were down here."

"He… he did?" That makes Jeremy look up, startled. And there's that flicker of… something. Which soon dies down.

"Yeah," Ollie tells him. "He was worrying that you weren't OK, and that you and Miles were going to keep fighting. So… I don't think he's going to be a problem."

"Oh. Well. Okay then. That's good." Jeremy tries not to sound… disappointed. And he's annoyed with himself.

"So… what… was he telling you before we got back?"

Ollie stares. "Honestly? By that point he was done with the heavy, meaningful stuff and had gotten sidetracked into a story about how a seven-year-old Miles ended up with a duck in his locker." Completely deadpan. "You do realise they're both clinically insane?"

"I don't think there's such a thing as clinically insane if there's no clinics," is his very… precise reply.

"…Sadly true," Ollie agrees. "But you know what I mean."

"And if you think those were the people protecting us from other countries… yeah. Okay. It's a good job they were good at it." He shivers like someone's walked over his grave.

"Can we talk about something else, now? I've had enough of them for tonight."

In the distance, there is a sudden, renewed burst of yelling, even more insane and frenetic than before, though – mercifully – Ollie can't make out any of the words. "…Yeah," she agrees. "Might be for the best."

Well. Common sense has to prevail _somewhere_.

Right?

***


	4. 2B - Citizen/Soldier

The next morning dawns, bright and blissfully normal, and before long the four of them are back on the road, following it north towards the little town of Murton.

"When we get there… I think we need to split up," Miles says. "Two of us stay out of the town with the horses, and two go in to recce the place. See what's what."

"Sounds like a plan. Who wants to stay back?" Bass asks.

"I don't mind either way," Jeremy answers. "Just tell me what to do and I will do it." He refuses to look at Ollie when he says this, though.

"…Maybe we should play it a bit more carefully," Ollie says, her own tone just as careful. "Like… maybe we shouldn't send both our Marines in to be hyper-conspicuous and so on…"

Miles stares at her. "Ollie. Are you saying Bass and me aren't subtle?"

"…Yes, Miles. I am saying Bass and you are anything _but_ subtle," Ollie replies, before she can lose her nerve. "So… how's about I go in with… uh… Bass, and you and Jeremy stay with the horses, and then when we come back we can take over and you two can wander instead?"

And I am totally not trying to orchestrate a way to get Miles and Jeremy to make up. Totally not.

Bass blinks at her in surprise. "We only make out a little bit in public, and we _never_ kill or even hurt anyone in public unless they _really_ deserve it." They are totally subtle. They are. Okay so they made out in Allentown but Bass thought Miles was going to die. So that doesn't count. And it's not like they're going to have sex in an alley… er…

Plus, why the sudden volunteering to be with him? He knows they talked yesterday but it's not like they're close. Ollie is practically joined at the hip to Jeremy. Have they had a fight, he wonders, peering at them both. Or is Ollie up to something?

"Wouldn't you rather stay with the horses first?" Jeremy asks. Not sure he wants leaving alone with Miles again any time soon.

"…No," Ollie says, trying not to look like she's Up To Something. "No. I think I'd like to be part of the… advance team… or whatever we'd be called. So. Plan?"

"Works for me," Miles answers, apparently still completely oblivious to the undertones.

Bass tries to throw a 'what the fuck, save me, why would we split up' look at Miles, but he seems oblivious. So he narrows his eyes at Jeremy. Jeremy who shrugs and tries to look innocuous and innocent.

"Okay. Fine," Bass relents. "We go in and we say we're travelling through, taking a little break en-route to trade and rest. And we keep our ears to the ground to see if they know about Franklin and if they support him."

"What if they do?" Jeremy asks.

"We take their shit and run," Bass replies, deadpan.

"Exactly," Miles agrees, equally deadpan and completely serious. "And it makes sense to do it this way. It means we're… a little less obvious, and it means both Jeremy and Ollie have one of us with them. So if these guys are allied with Franklin and someone tries something… we'll be able to protect them."

No one fucks with his people. No one. There's a hint of fierceness to his tone that's hard to ignore, all of a sudden.

Bass pats his sidearm. "Yeah. I doubt it will come to it, but if we're serious about taking him down it's gonna be more and more dangerous."

Jeremy narrows his eyes. "What if we don't hear about Franklin, or they don't seem to be his bros?"

"Then we try to make some contacts," Miles says. "Find out who's in charge, and see if they'd be more sympathetic to us. We don't want to start rounding people up and marching out now, but the more allies we can win over in places like this… the better."

"Until eventually… Gondor calls for aid?" Ollie asks.

"…Is anything you say actually in English?" Miles replies, flatly.

"TV Tropes will ruin your life," Jeremy jumps in, defensively.

Bass rolls his eyes and makes a few quick hand-gestures explaining precisely what he thinks of the conversation and how they would fix it.

"I am sure you were just being very rude." Jeremy does not sound impressed.

"…Now you know how we feel," is all Miles will say to this, though he's smirking a little as he does. Especially at what Bass just suggested. "We should find somewhere secluded to stop. Somewhere that Jeremy and I can stay with the horses whilst the two of you go meet the locals."

"Are you going to make yourself useful while we're gone?" Bass asks.

"I'm sure we will," Miles replies. "I can run through some more training with Jeremy. Possibly some firearms stuff." Because hand-to-hand… somehow he thinks it might be best to avoid that, after last night.

"Oh. Cool." Jeremy tries to keep the dread from his voice, looking over to Ollie in a 'you are leaving me with him and GUNS' way.

"So… shall we set out?" Bass asks Ollie.

Ollie tries to look at Jeremy reassuringly, in a this-will-be-good-for-you, no-really, go-make-up sort of way. But she's not wholly confident it comes across right.

And then… Bass. It's going to be an odd morning. "Sure," she agrees, carefully.

By now, they've moved off the road and found a clearing on the edge of a small forest. They start hitching the horses there, so that Miles and Jeremy can keep control of all five whilst the others are gone.

"We'll head back about noon. In case you don't see us…" Bass suggests. Lifting his hand to knock once against Miles' and then pull back.

"Have fun, boys…" he adds, shouldering his small backpack and holding an arm out to wave Ollie off first.

Miles looks like he's going to say something to Bass, but he holds off, and just gives him a 'for fuck's sake please don't die' sort of look instead.

Ollie quickly scoops together a few essentials into her own pack, leaving the rest in Audi's saddlebags, and then moves to follow Bass. "Be good!" she calls back, trying not to feel guilty.

"Let's not tell them we're going to Chicago. Just in case. We can be going somewhere else. Like – uh. Philly. Or anywhere, really," Bass suggests, resisting the urge to look back or – worse – run back for a kiss. He can do this. He can.

"Sounds sensible to me," Ollie agrees. She can sense Bass' unease – and sort of understands it. But… how best to distract him?

It's easier with Jeremy. Bass… is a little more complicated. "Any warning signs I should watch out for?" she asks. "When we get there, I mean. Beyond people actually shooting at us, which would be sort of obvious."

…and. Uh. Hopefully won't happen.

"Yeah. Things like them all looking related twice over, talking to themselves, or blocking your exits. Always keep an eye on your exits. And count the number of people in a room when you go in." Then he shrugs. "But people can go from fine to nasty in next to no time, and it's not like they all telegraph it either. So assume everyone wants you dead and you'll be safer."

"…OK," Ollie says, trying not to look nervous. "I hope it won't come to that, but… I should be prepared. Just in case." A beat. "I guess this sort of thing must be second nature to you."

"Yeah. We signed up as soon as we could. Did some high-risk tours. It's normal for us." Then he realises he might be being a little rude, so he pats Ollie's elbow gently. "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe. If I start talking about the colour red, or drumming my fingers, get ready to duck. Otherwise just… be wary and know I've got your six."

"…That's my back, right?" Ollie checks. She's pretty sure it is. "And… thanks. I'm hoping we'll be fine. Some of these towns have to be… sort of normal, surely?"

Bass uses two fingers to point out the clock points. "Twelve… three… six… nine. So yeah. It's your back. And… who knows what's normal now? I mean, when the power went… everything changed. Everything. I bet there's kids who don't know how to use a pen and paper. We used it for everything. Cooking. Cleaning. Communicating. And with no more rules and no more laws and no more leaders… it's not really a surprise someone like Franklin's cropped up. Won't be long before he has a fancy hat on and has people worshipping him or some shit like some Cargo God."

Ollie shudders. "I hope not. This is weird enough already. I don't think I could take it getting any stranger."

They're close to the outskirts of the town, now – and sure enough, they pass a road sign declaring "Welcome to Murton." Up ahead… things certainly _look_ normal. No piles of bodies or gangs of armed bandits. But you can never be sure. Ollie walks a little closer to Bass, just in case.

"Don't keep your hand on your gun. It makes people edgy. Just be aware of it at all times and be ready to reach for it. And try not to flex your fingers near it, either. Even if they don't know you're carrying, it can make people nervy," Bass says, as a last word of advice. "And smile. We want these people to like us. So try not to look like you're terrified. They're just people, and you're with a goddamn Marine."

And then – like magic – his whole demeanour changes. Suddenly, he's not nervy about being away from Miles. His smile is bright and he's relaxed. At least on the surface. He nods at a couple eyeing them as they enter the town.

"Morning," he says. "We're just travelling through, thought we could stop to do some trading and maybe hole up for a few nights if there's room?"

The couple – a youngish man and woman, arm in arm – both give them a wary but not unkind look.

"Oh, probably, yes," the man says. "You should talk to the Mayor, Matt Rogerson. He's in charge round here. Still works out of the town hall. Just keep following this road into the town centre, you can't miss it."

"Thank you! We'll go straight away," Bass says, and puts his hand on Ollie's elbow to guide him in. In case he gets shy.

When they're out of earshot, he leans closer to him. "Mayor? Well that's probably… probably a good sign."

"…Yeah," Ollie agrees. "Sounds like maybe society hasn't completely collapsed here. Which is… comforting." For a whole swathe of reasons.

"Unless he's a fucking tinpot dictator with the most guns… but we'll go with your assessment." Bass is joking. Mostly.

He looks around the little town. Mostly people are ignoring them, with sidelong glances. But no one seems overtly hostile. Just curious.

"You up for talking to the Mayor? We've got as much chance of convincing him as Miles and Jeremy do…"

"…Uh, sure," Ollie agrees. "But you don't think it would be better to wait and take Miles with you?" But she can sort of see why maybe it wouldn't be. Miles… is a very good leader. A very good soldier. Not so much with the diplomacy, though.

"Miles is…" Bass' tongue flicks out over his lips, nervously. "He's still sort of… on a power high. He… gets like this. Sometimes. After… fights. Or… stuff. Which is great but… not always around civilians." He's trying to be polite. Trying really hard. "Plus I don't think he's over Allentown yet. He might… take it hard if he gets turned down here, too."

Ollie… can sense the undertones. Especially after the conversation she had with Jeremy the previous night. She nods, carefully. "I see. Well… that makes sense. So… yes. Yes. Maybe we should do it. We might be more… uhm… subtle?"

Definitely. The way Miles was last night, Ollie wouldn't be surprised if he opened negotiations by brandishing a weapon in someone's face. It seems as easy as breathing to the man.

Bass tries not to look relieved that Ollie isn't arguing, or asking for further (awkward) explanations. "He does do talking. Just… he also does shooting and stabbing. And he tends to do shooting and stabbing when he gets bored of talking. And we want people to like us, not bleed to death…"

All said very lowly so people don't freak out. And then… there they are. What appears to be the Town Hall. "You want to be Good Visitor, or Bad Visitor?" he asks, with a sly grin.

Ollie gives a little giggle. "I cannot believe you just said that!" she says. And then thinks about it… and maybe it's a perfectly normal question if you're Bass Monroe. "…Maybe we should both be Good Visitor? So the nice mayor likes us?"

"Ollie, you're about as capable of being Bad Visitor as Jeremy is of hiding behind a tiny bush…" But he made Ollie laugh so that's good enough for him.

"Shush, we all have our little talents, and that… isn't mine," Ollie replies. But she's grinning. Now that she's slightly less convinced they're about to be killed by maniacs, it's easier to let all this be just a tiny bit exciting.

Bass walks up the steps at the front of the building, and stops at the Reception desk, where an older woman looking very much the stereotypical secretary peers over her glasses at them. "Yes?" she asks.

"We'd like to see Mayor… Rogerson," he finally remembers. "We've been told he would be the best person to ask about pitching up here and trading."

"Do you have an appointment?" the woman asks, putting down her pen.

"No, we just arrived," Bass explains, his smile a little plastered on.

"The Mayor is a very busy man." She tilts her head at them, disinterested.

Bass puts a hand on the desk, and leans in just a little. "I appreciate that…" his eyes roam looking for a name-badge or plate on the desk, but finds nothing. So he turns his smile more charming. "But if you could find some space for us in his diary we'd be very, very grateful."

The physical proximity, along with the brilliant wattage of his smile, makes the woman fluster slightly. It's been a while since there was anyone new around… and a lot longer since anyone flirted with her for favours. "I'll see what I can do. You… folks care to take a seat?"

"Bass," he says, free hand on his chest. "And my good friend Ollie." Nodding at him.

Ollie just watches. Fuck, but Bass is scary when he goes like this. Usefully scary, it's true, but scary nonetheless. She nods when Bass introduces her, but doesn't quite dare say anything. Just… hovering, nervously.

"I'll see what I can do," the receptionist says with a little wink. The wink goes on for longer than it needs to.

"I'm forever in your debt," Bass says, lingering a little before he stands up and goes over to the chairs.

And when their backs are turned to her, he winks at Ollie.

"You are terrible!" Ollie hisses, as they sit down. "Does Miles know you get like this?"

Not that she'd dare mention it, of course. She likes her wholly non-existent balls where they are, thank you very much.

"To be fair, other than the women in Allentown, I haven't actually been around anyone who wasn't a guy while we've been dating," Bass replies, sotto-voce. "And what was I supposed to do? Just leave? It's not like I plan on banging her. Even if I wasn't happy with Miles… I have standards, you know."

Thankfully, over at the desk, the receptionist can't hear them. She tinkers with some more things on her desk, then gets up. And very obviously adjusts her skirt and the seams of her stockings, before leaving.

Bass makes sure he's watching for her benefit, then shudders when she's gone. "So not my type, kid. So very not my type."

"…That's reassuring," Ollie says. "But, hey, you made a friend. So… that's something. And… wait, so you are actually into girls as well?"

Bass snorts. "You know before the blackout me and Miles were _only_ into girls, right?" He shakes his head in dismay. "I guess not. Well. Yeah. We just banged chicks. A lot of them. Nothing really… long term. Except… well. Miles had someone for a while when we were younger, but that was it."

"Really? That's just… it's hard to even imagine either of you with a girl," Ollie says. "I guess 'cause you're so… right together, it's weird to imagine you any other way."

She glances over at the receptionist's now-empty desk. "Better not tell your new friend that, though," she adds, with a little laugh.

"Well… suck it up because for years? We… we were both straight. Until about three years ago when… well. But we didn't end up together and to be honest I tried to forget about it. I mean… I like girls. They're fun and soft and shit. But they're not Miles. And fun and soft is nothing like…" he has the decency to blush a little. "Well. The right person. So. Yeah. If you turn out to like chicks too, we can give you advice on that."

He smirks at the desk. "Don't worry. She won't ever work out I'm anything less than her Prince Charming. Right up until we leave…"

Ollie goes several interesting colours all at once. "I… er… well, I'll keep that in mind…"

…and oh, please let the scary receptionist come back soon…

Bass laughs at Ollie's discomfort, and claps him on the shoulder. "Dude, don't worry about it. Guys are easier than girls anyway. Girls are always complicated. Guys you can totally be cool with."

Which is when the receptionist clip-clops back to her desk, avoiding their eyes, and looking down at her pad again.

Bass arches a brow at Ollie.

"…Should I shut my eyes for this part?" Ollie asks, deadpan.

He leans in to whisper, "Just don't tell Miles if she grabs my ass."

And then he pushes up and saunters slowly over to the desk. When the receptionist doesn't look up immediately, he perches on the end of it.

"So… did you work some magic for me?" he asks.

Still flustered, she starts scribbling something in a large diary. "I may have moved some things in his schedule to accommodate you."

Bass beams. "I knew you were the one in power. It's never the guy in the big office, is it?"

A little smile in return. "They like to think they are."

"So… can we head right up?"

She nods.

"You, my dear, are a treasure." He winks down at her. "We'll see you later. First door up the stairs on the right?"

"How did you…?"

"I listened to your footsteps." Bass pushes off the desk, and all but flounces over to Ollie. "Come on, kid. We're going straight up."

Ollie is now fighting the urge to collapse in hysterics. She manages to keep her face mostly level, but it looks a little painful – and when Bass gestures her on, she moves quickly.

"You, sir, are a complete bastard," she hisses, when they're out of earshot. Though there's more than a little admiration in her tone as well.

"No… I'm just open to exploiting the gender warfare on a level playing field. It's not like she wouldn't have done the same at a bar, or anywhere… so why shouldn't I?" he says, putting his hand on his chest in faux-offence. "I'll teach you one day. It will get you far…"

"…I worry about you sometimes…" is all Ollie will say to this.

Thankfully, they're at the door now, and she reaches out to knock on it, before carefully pushing it open.

"Hello?" Bass calls out. "Mayor Rogerson?" He lingers in the open doorway for a moment.

The room beyond is rather over-decorated, with the sort of dubiously-aged furniture which suggests its owner may think himself some sort of statesman. Said statesman is currently standing behind his desk, facing away from them, though he turns as Bass and Ollie walk in, looking marginally surprised and laying a golf club on the desk, as if he _meant_ to be doing that the moment they arrived. Off in the corner there are several golf balls, and it's highly likely the man was just practicing his putting.

Very busy, indeed.

"Ah," says Mayor Rogerson, looking at the pair of them. "So you're the newcomers Cynthia told me about. Welcome to Murton."

"Yes, that's us," Bass says, not losing a step of his stride. "I'm Bass Monroe, and this is Ollie Fischer. We're travelling through on our way to Philly and we wondered if we could hole up in your lovely town for a few nights?"

"Philly, eh?" says the Mayor. "You got business there? Never been myself, but I have a cousin who lives just outside, in Trenton. Nice place, so I'm told."

He has to be a little bit cautious. Not everyone who comes through the town is good news, and it really wouldn't do to be the person who let someone _bad_ in.

"We're looking for my brother," Bass lies easily. "Ben. He lived out there, and we're hoping to catch up with him. We were stationed down at Parris Island." He doesn't change too many facts so that he doesn't trip himself up.

"Stationed?" the Mayor repeats, having caught the word at once. "You're a soldier?"

Soldiers are either very good news or very bad. Matt Rogerson gives Bass Monroe a careful look up and down, wondering which he is.

Bass nods. "Yep. Two of us. There's four of us, altogether. So… we can be useful." He's deliberately trying to see what reaction the man has.

Four? And two of them soldiers? Definitely either very good or very bad…

"We do have some vacant houses," the Mayor says, opting to show his hand. "Quite a lot of people left after the Blackout. We could probably accommodate your group, but… what would you do, whilst you were here?"

_What do we get in return?_ in other words. Which isn't meant unkindly, just… carefully. He's in charge of this town, and he has to look out for it.

"Well, we've got natural skills at survival, and other things. We'd be happy to teach people basic hunting, cooking, and self defence." Bass nods at Ollie. "The kid can vouch for us being good trainers. We've survived in the woods since the Blackout. Would that be something that might benefit your people?"

"He's right," Ollie finally chips in, deciding this is probably her cue. "I've been with them a month and I've learned a lot. And I probably wouldn't even be alive right now if I hadn't met them in the first place."

It's a very sincere look. The Mayor has a hard time looking away from it, if truth be told.

"I… Well, that certainly sounds useful," he says. "And I think I know just the place for you."

He paces to another door at the back of the office, opens it and shouts, "Frederick? _Frederick_!"

Seconds later, a very tall young man, maybe twenty-five, comes racing in through the doorway. "Yes, Mr Mayor?" he says, brightly.

"Is the house on Delaware Road still free?"

"Oh, the big one?" says Frederick. "Yes, I've been keeping that one empty."

"Good," says the Mayor. "These gentlemen and their companions will be using it for a while."

"Understood, sir," Frederick answers. "I will have it prepared at once."

And he hurries out.

Clearly, Rogerson is trying to impress them. Or placate them. Or both.

Bass beams like the fucking sun. "That would be wonderful," he says, inclining his head respectfully. "Can I ask… have you… needed protection? We've seen a few towns who had – ah – had some negative elements visiting."

He's not trying to sound like he's running a protection racket, but he realises belatedly that it sort of sounds like he is. Shit.

The Mayor… stares at him. Just a little. "Not… directly," he says, tone careful again. "But we hear stories. Rumours. There are concerns that trouble may be on the horizon. I try to keep it quiet. I don't want people to panic."

"I don't mean to alarm you… but those rumours are true." How much does he say? How much dare he say? Bass looks over to Ollie, and wishes Miles were here instead. Even though he said Miles would be a bad idea… Bass would feel more comfortable if he was here, too.

"We've seen… some places harassed, others… obliterated. So. We thought if people knew how to defend themselves…"

"He's telling the truth," Ollie insists, seeing the way the Mayor pales at those words. "I'm sorry, but he is. But… we really aren't like that. We want to help. And Bass and Miles – he's the other soldier – they can teach people things. How to survive but also… also how to fight. In case they ever have to."

"…I see," Rogerson manages. "Well… well I don't want you forming some sort of army. Good Lord, no, that would make us far too conspicuous. But… but if you want to teach things to people who want to learn… I see no harm in that…"

"We don't want an army," Bass reassures him. "It's hard enough making ends meet for four of us, some days. But you really should be thinking of the future, Mayor. Not everyone is like us."

He winces when he remembers how they found Jeremy. How they were nearly too late.

"It's nice that you still have a community here," he says, staring out the window from where he stands. "Most places we've seen have fallen apart. It had me a bit worried, actually, about what we'd find when we got to Philly. But maybe it's not all as bad as I thought."

"We've done our best," the Mayor says, recovering a little. "It wasn't easy in the beginning, but this is a good town and people pulled together. And I… want to make sure they're safe."

"Well… encourage as many people to come see us as you can," Bass suggests. "Get them ready. I mean, don't turn them into psycho killers or anything… but have them ready. Because… you don't know what's gonna happen."

"I'll… spread the word," the Mayor says, a little nervously. "In the meantime, see Frederick downstairs. He'll be able to point you in the direction of the house. Stay as long as you like."

"Thanks. We will." Bass glances his fingers over Ollie's elbow. "Hopefully you'll come by too?" Although it's clear he's ready to leave any minute now.

"…Perhaps," Rogerson says. "Not really much of a fighter. But… maybe."

Ollie doesn't look wholly convinced. But… they've made progress. Surely that's something?

***

When Bass and Ollie make it back to the camp outside Murton, Ollie is surprised by what she sees. Or, to be more specific, _doesn't_ see.

The horses are tethered at the edge of the clearing, where they left them. Miles is here too, sitting against one of the trees, feet up on his pack, reading what looks to be a book, and on closer inspection turns out to be _Firestarter_ by Stephen King. He looks… surprisingly calm and relaxed, and quite engrossed in the book.

Which would all be fine. Except, there's no sign of Jeremy.

"Please for the love of God tell me you didn't kill Jeremy and bury him in the forest?!" Ollie exclaims, by way of a greeting.

"Hey, Miles," Bass says, calmer, and drops to sit beside him.

"Hey, Bass," Miles says, checking the page number and closing the book. "Didn't expect you back so soon."

Ollie, meanwhile, is staring. " _Miles_!" she says. "What did you do with Jeremy?" It's possible she's been a little worried about him the entire time. After last night…

"Hm?" Miles mutters, looking up at her. "Oh, Jeremy? We've been doing some training." He smirks. He looks… unnecessarily pleased with himself.

Bass leans over and steals the book from Miles' hands, leaning back against him and reading the dust cover. "Did you make a soldier of him?" he asks, vaguely. He does not sound at all concerned. "And have you been setting him on fire?"

"I have not set anything on fire," Miles says, looking faux-insulted. "I told you, that wasn't me. Neither of those times were me. I've been teaching him concealment." He flashes a smile up at Ollie. "Do you see him anywhere?"

"No!" Ollie exclaims. She still looks suspicious and more than a little concerned.

"Exactly," Miles says, looking smug. He picks up a pebble from the ground and, seemingly without needing to check his aim, flings it in a high arc across the clearing and into the bushes on the far side.

There's a hiss of breath as Jeremy tries very hard not to yelp at the rock hitting him on the head.

"Bang, bang," Bass says, without looking up from the book. "You're now officially dead, Jeremy. But nice try. Ollie wasn't going to shoot you if that helps."

Jeremy stays silent for a little while longer. "…how long have you known where I was?" he finally asks, reluctantly standing up. He's covered in mud and leaves. He does not look the model of a soldier. He looks like someone who had an epileptic fit near a tree.

"…I dunno," Miles says, off-hand. "Quarter-hour, maybe? You were over there – " – he gestures vaguely – " – before, but then you moved, and I stopped paying attention to give you a chance, and then there you were again. I think maybe you need more practice, but you were definitely harder to spot this time. Really." He sounds… almost sincere. Almost.

"…you're such a bastard," Ollie remarks, and drops down beside another of the trees, watching Jeremy with a look of concern still on her face.

"I thought you hadn't heard me," Jeremy says, pulling the leaves off and sounding hurt.

"Jeremy… it will take more than an afternoon for you to learn that. But normal people wouldn't have found you. So that's a good thing," Bass says, looking up to try and reassure him. Even if he's trying not to laugh, and just to smile winningly. Trying really hard.

"…Yeah, I didn't find you," Ollie points out. Trying to be nice, in between throwing little glares at Miles.

"See?" Miles says, as if this proves his point. "So what happened in Murton? I take it they're not maniacs or cannibals or something?"

"Well no one offered us brain stew but they probably need to know us for longer before we get invited to the ritual sacrifices," Bass replies.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people?!" Ollie exclaims. "You're sick!"

Miles shrugs. "You have to consider these things," he points out, as if this is an entirely reasonable line of enquiry.

Ollie puts her head in her hands and starts counting slowly to ten under her breath.

"Normally ritual sacrifice would happen around seasonal times, such as the new year, or maybe full moon and harvest," Jeremy offers. "It's not full moon tonight so we are probably safe."

"See!" Bass says, waving at Jeremy. "Perfectly normal. Anyway. I spoke to the mayor, and they've heard rumours, but nothing substantial. He's still got them in some weird… Stepford-like hold. And hiding his head a bit from all talk of danger. Anyway…" He puts the book down, now, clearly feeling proud. "I managed to wangle the big, empty house in return for us showing people basic survival and self-defence skills. If we don't look like we're raising an army…"

"Oh, nice," Miles says, looking pleased. "You can do the negotiating in future." He slaps his hands on his knees and then clambers to his feet. "Right, then. We'll all head into the town. I still want to scope the place out a little myself and I think I owe Jeremy a run out, so… how's about Jeremy and I go exploring whilst the two of you find this house and get the horses settled?"

"My feet are kind of numb and I think my ass went to sleep," Jeremy says, rubbing at his hips.

Bass snorts. "Okay. Fine. But if I find you passed out against a lamp-post singing about strippers, you are so getting Sharpie all over the face."

"That was _one_ time and you thought it was fucking _hilarious_ ," Miles says, with an ineffectual glare. "And why does your mind immediately jump to me being drunk? I said I wanted to scope the place out, not drink it!"

"Because I know you, and I know how your little, twisted mind works," Bass says, as he pushes up to stand toe-to-toe with Miles. "It was hilarious. But back then I did not need you to be in full working order. In a _real bed_."

Jeremy decides now is a good time to go over and help Ollie with the horses. "Come on… before it gets all Jerry Springer," he begs.

"Sorry," Ollie whispers. "I thought leaving the two of you alone would help. I didn't mean for him to make you hide in bushes for hours." She looks a little guilty.

"He said it would be useful because I wasn't good at hitting people so I should just hide…" Jeremy says, still a little pink. "I think he just wanted some peace and quiet to read his book in but he could just have said…"

"Even so," Ollie replies. "I'd hit the man but I don't want to get snapped in two. And… you guys have to find some way to make up. Or something. I don't know, I'm out of ideas!"

"I think I should just give him a lot of… space. Until he forgets about it. Men… men like to do that. Ignore shit. And hope it gets better."

"So I've noticed," Ollie says, wryly. "Well. Maybe a few days among other human beings will calm him down…"

Behind them there's a slight scuffle and a sudden, exasperated shout from Miles of, "seriously, I do not _know_ how it ended up on fire but it was nothing to do with me!"

"…or maybe not."

***

Eventually, they head back down into Murton. Bass and Ollie set off for the house they've been loaned, taking all five horses with them.

Leaving… Miles and Jeremy.

Miles watches the other two go, waiting until they're out of sight before he claps Jeremy on the back. "Well," he says, brightly, "I don't know about you, but I could murder a drink."

"You told Bass you wouldn't!" Jeremy sounds indignant. "And it's not even dark!"

"It's tactical!" Miles insists. "You want to scope a place out, you need to meet the locals. Best place to meet the locals and get them to talk to you? Bar. Seriously, man, I've done this before."

"Why am I not surprised by that?" Jeremy murmurs. "Okay. Sure. But if you get in a bar-fight, I am so pretending I don't know you and running away…"

"Deal," Miles says, lightly, and claps him on the shoulder again. "Now come on, and try not to look so worried. It makes you conspicuous."

"Oh because there's nothing scary about going drinking with a Marine in a bar full of potential baby-eaters… no not scary at all…" Jeremy shudders. "I've seen how this ends. I'm not interested in Daedric artefacts. And I am _not_ oblivious to the 'we all meet in the bar' either. But I will say now that I am _not_ clearing rats out of the cellar. You can do that on your own too. While I quaff mead."

Miles stares at him. "You do realise you're just saying things that don't make any sense, right?"

"This is how I feel when you and Bass start talking about field thingies and calibres and how best to bleed someone to death," Jeremy says, rather quickly. "And it makes total sense. We meet in a bar to start our adventure. You are totally the fighter or barbarian – maybe dual classed as a fire mage – Ollie is probably a wizard, Bass is… I dunno but probably he's a druid because of how much he loves his fucking horse and I'm probably the thief because someone has to check for traps. And we totally go and ask for rumours and it gives us our first quest chain."

More staring. "…Seriously, Jeremy, you need to get laid. Or wasted. Or something. This isn't normal."

Jeremy's teeth grind audibly. "Find me Mr Right and I will fuck him. Or he can fuck me. But not all of us used real guns before the blackout, Miles. Some of us were happy getting our mindless violence fix with a nice AOE spell. Like Fireball. So maybe you should get me that mead then. Or something stronger. I think I need something stiff before the end of the night and it's likely only to come in measures this big…" He holds a finger and thumb out, indicating a reasonable slug of alcohol. Or unreasonable amount of something else.

Miles claps him on the back yet again. "That's the spirit!" he says, and directs them both off down the street. It's like he has some kind of sixth sense, because within moments there's what's clearly a bar up ahead; the old neon sign above it still there but useless now. The door, however, is open.

It looks inviting. Or, it does if you're Miles.

"After you," Jeremy insists when they get to the door. So, you know, Miles can get knifed first.

Miles heads inside without blinking. Not looking remotely concerned. Within, the bar is unremarkable but seems decent enough. It is the middle of the afternoon so it isn't busy, but there's a few other patrons at tables.

Perfect. Miles waves Jeremy at one of the empty tables, then goes up to the bar and has a short discussion with the barman. When he comes back… he has a bottle. And glasses.

"Opened us a tab," he says, easily. "Barman sounded quite interested in some self-defence training. Says he'll spread the word among some of his regulars. And he says the drinks are on him if we're any good."

He settles in a chair, pouring them both a shot. "And Jeremy? Trust me, I'm good."

Jeremy doesn't blink. "Well. I am not dead yet, agreed, but I can't hide worth shit and I still don't like killing rabbits. So don't big yourself up too much." He downs the shot rather rapidly.

And then has to hold his breath not to hiss in pain. The fuck is this?

Miles arches his eyebrows at the retort, and the look. "Wow, someone got up on the wrong side of the tent this morning," he remarks, knocking back his shot – and fuck, oh fuck, the stuff tastes like death but it sure is good. What is it, even… some kind of Bourbon, maybe? "For your information, your _concealment_ is better than you think and I don't like killing them either. But hunger will do strange things to a man."

"Not good enough," Jeremy says with a sigh. "It's like 'almost' landing a plane. You can't 'almost' hide in cover. You do, or you don't. And fuck but I sound like Yoda." He pushes his glass out for some more.

And… realises he's being rude.

"…sorry. I… I told you when you picked me up I'm a lousy learner."

Miles actually laughs, though not at the Star Wars reference. Not. "Yeah, you did," he says, "but you're doing better than you think. So cut yourself some slack and stop worrying so much. Seriously, man, you're making me tense. And in a moment I have to give all these delightful people the sales pitch."

He pours them both a second shot. Sales pitch is easier when you've had a few.

Jeremy feels like a total heel at that, so he… reaches out slowly – very slowly, having learned his lesson about fast movements – and pats Miles on the arm. "Hey. Without you I'd be dead already. A million times over. I just… I don't like not being perfect. And… well. You and Bass make it look so easy it's a hard thing to measure yourself against. So. I'm sorry I'm a whiny bitch. I will try not to be…"

"Jeremy, I mean it, stop worrying," Miles tells him, giving him an odd little look but not overreacting to the attempted contact this time. "We had years of specialist training with experts. So far you've had three months with… well, us. And you're not dead yet, so I'm chalking that up to a win."

Down goes the shot. Damn, it feels good.

Jeremy offers a sloppy smile and an even sloppier salute in return. "You're damn fine soldiers, Miles. I mean it. I don't give a damn what your rank was before the lights went out. You're the only people I've seen who want to make a difference in the dark. And I'll tell anyone who asks precisely how good you both are."

Miles grins. "Perfect. You can help me with the sales pitch, then." Which is partly tactics, and partly because he's not really after praise. He's not doing this for the rewards. He's doing it… because it's right.

Jeremy rubs his hands together. "Point me at someone. I'll be your wing man. But not in a picking up dudes way. In a picking up recruits way. Because I like my balls where they are."

"Yeah, me too," Miles says, staring almost wistfully at the door – just for a second – as if he expects Bass to come charging in and… oh, OK, now where did _that_ mood come from..?

He has another shot for good measure – they don't seem to faze him all that much – and then rises to his feet. "Come along, then. Let's make some friends…"

***

"Trust me," Bass tells Ollie, "I know the man better than I know myself some days. He'll be in here…" He pushes the door to the bar open, and smirks at his companion. "What did I tell you? At least he isn't half naked and dancing on the tables singing obscene songs… but yep. There he is."

"Bass!" Jeremy calls out when he sees them. "Ollie! Come in! We were having a friend! I mean we were having fun with a friend! We made friends! They want to learn to kill shit too!"

Ollie facepalms visibly and shakes her head. This is what happens when you leave nice, impressionable men with Miles. They end up either bruised or drunk. And that's on the good days.

"There you are!" Miles exclaims, extricating himself from the crowd – which has grown quite a lot in the last couple of hours – and gesturing to Bass. "Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Marine, Bass Monroe!"

It's possible he may have been Drinking. Capital letter deliberate.

"Uhm… hi…" Bass says, feeling a bit awkward suddenly, and way too sober for this. "Miles… how… long have you been here?"

"Bass is really good at shooting stuff," Jeremy tells one impressionable woman who hasn't left his side all night. "Like, really good. But not cooking. _I_ am the cook."

"…Couple of hours at least?" Miles says, looking like he sort of maybe realises it was Bad, but is not really in the right state of mind to care. "It worked! Jeremy said it would! He said you have to start in a bar… or a tavern, I don't know, he uses funny words, you know that… and that's how to do it right. So we did! And we told all these people about the house and all the useful things we can start teaching them tomorrow, and some of them are going to come along and see _so_ , all in all, I think we did pretty good."

He pauses. And waves the remnants of a bottle of something at Bass. "Drink?"

Bass takes the bottle. He sniffs at it and his nose wrinkles. But then he downs a hefty swig of it anyway, and then offers the bottle to Ollie.

"I see. I'm glad you made friends," he says, very pleasantly. Although he is somewhat annoyed Miles has been off getting wasted when he had to do sensible things all day. Sensible things that didn't involve Miles.

"An inn! You all meet in an inn!" Jeremy corrects him. "But I left my wizard's staff at home."

The woman draped around Jeremy slaps a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. "Oh my!" she exclaims, faux-dramatically. "I'm sure we could help you with that…"

Ollie, meanwhile, stares at the bottle. She has never been drunk before. A small glass of wine or a single beer with food has always been her limit, up to now – with the exception of that evening in Allentown, with the whisky. But that time she was just… slightly merry. Not wholly pippin. And oh fuck, why is Jeremy busy when she's coming out with these wonderful mental lines? She has a mouthful of whatever is in the bottle, coughs, and puts it down on the nearest table as though frightened it may be about to explode. Because. Who drinks this stuff?

Said drinker of stuff is currently trying to remonstrate with his boyfriend in public without _looking_ like he's remonstrating with his boyfriend in public. "It was tactical!" Miles insists. "Best place to meet a good cross-section of the locals at once!" Which is a good reason. It is. It just clearly wasn't the _only_ reason.

"Oh… you want to send me on a quest to retrieve a magical artefact?" Jeremy asks the woman. "I could do that. I am noble and good and pure and true."

Bass cocks his head to one side. "It was very tactical. Very clever, Miles. A wonderful idea." There is no trace of irony in his voice, but anyone who knows him… knows it's there. Bass snatches up the bottle and drains it in one go, then slams it back down. "Really, you were so very clever."

The woman swoons a little. "Oooh, I know you are. I'm sure I could think of something for you to retrieve…"

Miles blinks at Bass suspiciously. "…You're mad. I can tell you're mad."

Jeremy drops to one knee. "Kind maiden, speak the words of the quest and on my honour I will perform it…"

Bass ignores Jeremy. Who is being weird. And smiles warmly at Miles. "Why would I be mad, Miles? You did precisely what we planned."

Oh, for the love of… Ollie stalks over to Jeremy, pulls him to his feet, and stands between him and the strange woman. The height difference makes this a little tricky, but she does her best. "Sorry, love, he's spoken for. And not your type. And very, very drunk."

"…and yet, here you are, clearly mad," Miles says to Bass. And… starts eyeing up the door. "Maybe we should take this discussion outside…"

"I was going to do a quest! It's why I am in an inn! Why are you stopping me levelling up?" Jeremy asks, even as he stands behind her.

"Are you sure your friends can be parted with you?" Bass asks, with that butter-wouldn't-melt expression on his face.

The woman looks alarmed by this interruption. "Yes!" she says, clearly more than a little drunk herself. "He was calling me 'kind maiden' so I must be his type. Who are you, anyway?"

Which is when Ollie… snaps. " _His boyfriend_ ," she hisses, before promptly turning, dragging Jeremy down and kissing him firmly – quickly – on the lips.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is such a stupid idea.

"I'm _certain_ of it," Miles is saying to Bass, when he catches sight of what's going on. "It was just the sales pi-… oh _fuck_."

Jeremy is too shocked to do anything but let Ollie kiss him. Which… what the fuck?

Which is more or less what's on his face when Ollie lets go of him. What the fuck?

Bass sees what's going on, and decides now is the best time to leave. He grabs Miles by the collar and yanks him towards the door. "Come on. There's enough gay in the pub as it is, and they probably want some time alone for this…" Oh. And I want some time alone. With you.

Miles doesn't argue. On the contrary, he looks pretty close to yelling 'yippee,' albeit in Pretend Sensible Marine Voice. Or something. And then they're gone.

Leaving… Ollie. Jeremy. And the Trainwreck from Hell.

Ollie tries to look crushingly apologetic when no one but Jeremy can see.

The woman, meanwhile, stares in shock for a moment, and then her expression brightens again. "Well, that's good!" she says. "I have two hands."

Jeremy pushes himself between Ollie and the woman. "I'm afraid my boyfriend is very gay," Jeremy says, sounding very apologetic. "And… well. I am too. I am sorry if I was besmirching your honour, my fine lady, but this elf does not fight for the Horde."

He takes her hand and bows over it, then lets go.

"I… see…" the woman manages, now looking a little alarmed and more than a little confused. "Well… I can see I've… I mean, I didn't mean to… Please excuse me." And she makes a run for it before this conversation can get any weirder.

Ollie goes over to the bar without making eye-contact with anyone, and certainly without daring to speak to Jeremy. "Hey," she says to the barman, "my friend, Miles? Tall, dark-haired one who talks about fighting a lot? Did he by any chance open up a tab?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, he did," the barman answers. "I said the drinks were on me if he was really going to teach people to fight. Lord knows we need to be better able to defend ourselves, what with all these rumours of bandit attacks. So. Is that your way of asking for one?"

Ollie takes a deep breath. "Yes. I require a bottle of whatever it was that he was drinking. Please."

"And how old are you?" the barman asks.

"Twenty-one," Ollie answers, without the barest hesitation.

The barman gives her a look, then shrugs. "Close enough."

And he produces a bottle from beneath the bar. "Enjoy."

Jeremy follows like a little kicked puppy, looking sadly after the woman he's upset. He wasn't trying to hit on her. He was just trying to be nice. Why does this always happen?

He waits for Ollie to turn around from the bar, and looks sheepishly at her. "Er. Thanks. I… guess I need to stop being so nice to women, huh?"

"Jeremy, you're nice to everyone and that's rare," Ollie says, uncorking the bottle and staring at it suspiciously. "Don't ever change. But maybe keep me around to defend you from freaks."

Not quite up for drinking directly from the bottle, she pours out a shot and sniffs at it. "I do not know how Miles can drink this crap," she says, and downs it, coughing a little. "Or you. Seriously. It's even worse than the Scotch. It tastes like it's been made in a barrel behind a shed."

Jeremy leans in. "It probably was. Try not to be so loud about it or they will give us even worse crap." He decides it's time for more for him.

"It gets worse?" Ollie says, pouring herself some more, and then offering the bottle to Jeremy. "You know I've never been drunk before. What's it like?"

Jeremy puts an arm on her elbow and guides her over to a table to sit a bit away from everyone. "It depends. Sometimes it's like the giddiest fucking feeling in the world. Like you're jumping all over and everything is sparkly and wonderful. Sometimes it's like you want to–" his tongue flickers out. "Uhm. Find someone. And sometimes it's just like being slightly tired and confused, and sometimes it's like the whole fucking world is ending and you want to cry until you puke."

"…Hopefully tonight won't be the last one," is all Ollie can say to this. It sounds awfully complicated.

Like the other thing. "I'm sorry I kissed you. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to scare that woman away and it's what people do in the movies and… fuck, I really am sorry."

Jeremy reaches out and pats her hand. "No. It was really sweet." He's still blushing. "I… didn't… think anything like that anyway. I know you were just trying to prevent me from being a fool around yet another person this week. I… thanks." And he laughs. "Bass is gonna be convinced we're fucking now."

"…oh fuck, I didn't think of that, either," Ollie says, pouring another shot. How many is that, now? Are you supposed to keep count? She drinks it. It still hurts… but it's starting to hurt less. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"No… it's fine. I'll tell him you were rescuing me from an over-amorous woman and I am sure he will understand." Hands running through his hair. "I don't know why I attract women. I'm not in the slightest bit interested in them. I don't know why they like me."

Ollie gives him an odd look. "Jeremy. You're sweet, polite, good-looking and tall. Women like these things. Which is so not a come-on either… fuck, I really need to just shut up or something…"

And drink some more. World feels sort of odd. And weirdly paced.

"But I like guys!" Jeremy protests. "Can't they read that all over me? Even worse… I like the guys who are bad for me! The kind women shouldn't like! Those are the best kinds…" He swirls his glass around. "…aren't they? I mean… aren't absolute bastards more fun than the tall guy next door?" He tries not to sound pleading with this.

Now Ollie gives him an even odder look. "You have… unusual tastes," she points out, trying to be tactful. "I'm not saying that's a bad thing, 'cause it really isn't, but most people… well, _more_ people… want the guy next door. Or the girl next door. You… aren't most people. But you hide it well."

Jeremy puts his hands on the table, then smacks his head into them. "I am so fucked. Well. Not. That's kind of the problem. And the more I'm _not_ fucked the more I love it. Which is fucked. And I need to stop saying 'fucked', but they make me say it. I used to be so nice. I used to say 'fracked'."

Ollie pushes the bottle towards Jeremy, going furiously pink. "You should have some more of this. It's very nice and it makes the world go sort of odd and that's nice too and gosh aren't we having lovely weather tonight..?"

"I think maybe I had too much and it's one of those 'oh god what have I done with my life' times," Jeremy says, refusing to lift his head. "All I fucking need now is a karaoke and I can find a hairbrush and sing 'I Will Survive' and then throw up and pass out…"

"If you sing 'I Will Survive' then, so help me, I'll be right up after you singing 'Defying Gravity,'" Ollie threatens. "And unlike you, I can't sing."

She has another mouthful of the alcohol. Straight from the bottle. Well, it's quicker than pouring.

"And then the nice people will run us out of town to make me stop, and you'll have to explain to Miles and Bass what went wrong." Ollie narrows her eyes. "And you'll only enjoy it. So I am totally vetoing singing."

"I thought you wanted me to sing Rocky Horror songs… have you changed your mind?" Jeremy asks, looking up blearily from the table.

Ollie appears to consider this. Considering things becomes more difficult after several alcohols. How many alcohols? Lots. She giggles. "I'd take the risk for Rocky Horror," she concedes. "Will there be suspenders? And knee-high boots, oh my…"

Jeremy narrows his eyes at her. "Where am I going to find boots and suspenders in Extra Tall Man size, Ollie? The best you could probably get would be a feather boa and some atrocious eye makeup. Because I am not that sort of a dude."

"You'd look cute in eyeliner," Ollie says, and then collapses into giggles again. "Oh how fucked-up are we?" she exclaims, having another mouthful from the bottle and waving it at him in the hope he might want some too.

"Then you have to promise you'll put it on me, because I will look like a fucking panda having a fit if I do it myself. Some guys rock that… not me. I was much happier in jeans and a t-shirt," he says, with the start of a smile now. "And if you do my makeup I promise I will show you all the secrets to being a man…"

"There are secrets?" Ollie says, leaning in closer. "I always thought it just involved more swearing and being able to walk around with your shirt off. And slapping each other on the back instead of hugging."

Jeremy smirks. "Nope. You also have to sit in a certain way. And laugh if someone farts or belches. And occasionally cup yourself. And scream like a girl if anyone kicks you… there. And there's whole _swathes_ of rules about pissing…"

"Whoa, waaaaay too unsuitable for me," Ollie insists, unconvincingly, having another mouthful of alcohol. "Like this stuff. Tastes like… tastes like shed. Or something. Tastes like something." She waves it at Jeremy again. "You want? You should have. S'nice."

"It tastes like being drunk," Jeremy says and takes the bottle. "And… how much have you had?" he asks. And drinks some more.

"Lots!" Ollie says, brightly. "I dunno, some. I had some and it was nice and I wondered if I should count but then I forgot and now I'm not sure but I know it was some, possibly quite a few somes, and now my head feels sort of interesting and like maybe it's got colours in it that don't exist."

She pauses. Waves a hand vaguely in his direction, and then grins. "S'nice!" she insists again.

"Should I be the responsible adult and keep the bottle from you?" Jeremy wonders aloud. "Before you start dancing on tables?"

Ollie curls her arms around the bottle, protectively, and narrows her eyes at him. "Am very responsible. Very responsible and also an adult, just about, so… there." A beat. "And I don't dance either. 'cept the Macarena that one time."

Jeremy blinks. "…the Macarena?"

"Shush, my Junior Prom was Nineties-themed," Ollie says, defensively.

"You are going to have to show me, or I won't believe you," Jeremy says. "And I will ask you publicly to borrow your razor every time I need a shave until you do," he threatens.

Ollie stares for just a second, and then her face breaks into a very evil grin. "Jeremy," she says, sweetly, "I have a razor. It just isn't for my face."

More alcohol. Lots more alcohol. No wonder Miles likes it. Even if it still tastes like shed.

"Fine. And your shaving cream. And I'll complain how your face is always so baby-smooth so you must use something magical…" He reaches for the bottle. "Gimme."

" _Shush_ yourself, or I'll tell Miles you like it when he hits you," Ollie threatens, but she offers him the bottle. After having some more for herself, first.

Jeremy tries for shocked horror. "That wouldn't stop him! He'd just feel more awkward about it!" he insists. "You're doing the Macarena, Ollie. If you do it right now I will let you put as much makeup on me as you can beg, borrow or steal and I will sing like the Sweet Transvestite I truly am… well… not…"

Ollie takes the bottle back, finishes it, and sets it down with an ominous clunk. "Deal," she says.

And climbs up onto the table.

***

When Miles and Bass step out of the bar – leaving the other two to what will clearly be a very entertaining trainwreck – it's dark and cool outside. The sun has set and the sky is awash with stars, and lit with moonlight.

"And anyway," Miles is still saying, "at least half a dozen people said that they would definitely come tomorrow, and a good few more are going to think about it. So all in all I think this went fucking well."

"Miles, we have already discussed how it went well," Bass says as patiently as he can, still yanking the man by his collar until they clear the bar. "And how wonderful you are and how perfect and everything…"

"And yet you don't sound convinced," Miles points out. He is drunk, not stupid. He bats Bass off him as soon as he can, though doesn't move far away once he has.

"No, really, I am," Bass says, not happy about being shrugged off. And there's the first flash of something in his eyes. "I'm over the moon, Miles. It's great."

Now Miles stops. "Quit being passive-aggressive with me. Unless you want to be dragged into an alley and jumped."

Bass' eyes narrow. "Who says you get all the jumping privileges?" he asks. "What if I feel like…" hands up grabbing the front of his shirt, dragging him into said alley… "doing the jumping?"

Miles grins, looking positively triumphant. "Then hurry the fuck up before I have to take the initiative," he growls. "And before the nice people in that bar become less rowdy and will therefore be able to hear me screaming…"

With gusto, Bass slams Miles back into the alley wall. Hands still gripping his shirt, he presses in full-length against him. "You've been fucking around getting drunk with your puppy," he growls. "While me and Ollie have been making nice and sorting the horses and fixing up our fucking _amazing_ house. It has a basement, Miles. A basement. Some kid used to play rock band in it. It's all dark and soundproofed and all I could think was how much I wanted to throw you down in it and fuck you senseless. _And you were off getting wasted without me_ ," he hisses. Almost close enough to kiss. Almost.

"I was _networking_!" Miles insists, triumph blending to something like hurt. "This plan is not going to work unless enough people know about it. And guess what? Now they do. So forgive me for doing _exactly what I was supposed to_."

Bass' hand moves fast. Grabs hold of Miles' jaw and holds his head still so he can surge in and kiss him fiercely on the lips. His other hand snaking between them and grasping at his cock through his trousers. He kisses and kisses until he feels light-headed, then he bites Miles' lip for good measure. When he pulls back, his cheeks are red and his eyes shot. "Congratu-fucking-lations. Now if you've quite done, unless you're so wasted it's no longer possible, I'd quite like my boyfriend to myself for the rest of the night." His hand twists experimentally, to see how up for it he actually is.

Miles kisses him back. Hard. He isn't fighting for control, but he's sure as fuck not just surrendering, either. "I'm a Marine, remember?" he points out. "It'll take more than a few drinks to keep me down."

It's a deserted alley. And it's well after dark. And why the fuck not?

"…so if you want me to yourself, why don't you just take me? Why don't you just take me _right_ here, you twisted fuck?"

Bass leans in and bites his ear, hands still keeping tight hold of him. "Oh, so it's fine here, but not in fucking Allentown? What happened to 'bed, Bass, there's a bed and everything'? Now you're such a fucking whore that you want me to take you up against some filthy wall right where anyone could see?"

Not that the idea doesn't have some appeal, after all. His hand moves to slide Miles' fly down, and push inside to stroke him through his boxers.

"We were covered in blood and mud that time," Miles points out, reasonably. "Besides, I like… _fuck!_ …variety."

Which is when Bass gets hold of him, and his eyes go dark. He pushes into the contact, the need suddenly hitting him like a shockwave. "Yeah," he growls, "I want you to take me right here, right now, and then I want you to take me back to this wonderful house you've gotten us and test out just how soundproofed that basement _really_ is."

"I like you dirty," Bass protests, licking a rough stripe under his jaw. "Plus all the fighting makes me fucking hard."

Then he pulls back in one go, not touching him at all. Only for a minute. Only just long enough to grab his shoulder and spin him around. "Hands on the wall, Marine. Legs braced. I hope you're fucking ready…"

The movement takes Miles a little by surprise, but it's damn good surprise and he growls happily, moving his hands and legs when Bass tells him to. "Fuck, yes," he says. "I'm fucking ready. I've been fucking ready all fucking day. And I fucking _love_ you when you're like this." A beat. For effect. " _General_."

Which makes Bass' grin go wider, even if Miles can't see it. "Too fucking right. You horny little bitch. Worse than a rent boy, because you're not even getting paid to take my dick." He pushes Miles' trousers down enough to bare his ass, but no more. There's the sound of his own fly unzipping, and then two cold (and, thankfully lubed) fingers push into him without any further ado. "You better not scream so loud they come to help you. That's later, Marine." Even as he fucks his ass as roughly as he can with those fingers, making him good and ready.

"At least I'm not the one taking lube to _bars_ ," Miles manages to point out, in between biting his own lip to keep from making a lot of noise at the sudden intrusion. "Fuck, Bass, you could at least _try_ to pretend this wasn't your plan all along…"

You know, like I am.

Bass whacks his ass with his other hand. "I found some. When I was here before. Finding nice things. _For you_ ," he adds, and shoves a third finger in out of spite. "You were the one who went off to the bar and stayed there and got drunk rather than come find me so I could make proper use of it. And why, precisely, are you giving your General attitude? Same reason you stayed out getting drunk? So I'd have to punish you?"

"You were busy. And I was _networking_. And you fucking _like_ me this way, so don't even try to deny it. You want me to build you an army, you're going to have to, you know, _let_ me."

Not that he objects to getting his brains fucked out as a result. And given the way that just three fingers are already making his knees shake, it's going to be a small miracle if he's not screaming before long.

"Like you which way, precisely?" Bass asks, even as he grabs the man's hip and – struggling slightly with the angle so moving to shove him more bent over – pushing inside with a grunt. "Sassy as fuck?"

For a moment, Miles has to concentrate on not screaming. Which is not easy when you _are_ a screamer and your boyfriend has just done _that_.

"…you'd be… _fuck_ … bored if I just did as I was told all the time," he points out.

"Well, don't expect I'm going to be any kinder to you just because I love you, you bastard," Bass points out. And then has both hands on his hips, the better to slam into him. Hard. Fast. Dirty. "Fuck but you feel tight like this. I should fuck you in dirty alleys more often…"

"Yeah, you fucking should," Miles growls, pushing back against him all the more in an attempt to get Bass as deep as possible. "Because you feel fucking _incredible_."

He really, really does. Fucking incredible, in all the right ways. Miles drops his head, all the better to enjoy how every last thrust sends him closer towards the edge. And… the black. " _Yes_. Yes. I'm all yours, General. All _fucking_ yours."

Bass smirks. "So mine, that I'm not even going to let you come yet, Miles. You better not fucking come. I want you–" snap "–so fucking turned on that by the time I get you–" thrust "–home your balls are fucking _blue_ and you're begging me to let you come…"

" _Fuck_ , yes," Miles breathes, managing to keep himself up against the wall even though he feels like his knees really will give way now. "I love you, you sick, sick fuck."

Which is when Bass draws his sidearm and pushes it to the back of Miles' neck. Still fucking him as hard as he can. "First you're going to beg _me_ to come. So I take you back sooner."

" _Fuck_ ," Miles says again, but this time he sounds wrecked. Flashes of memory cross his mind; Allentown, moonlight, and Bass, with that gun, and that knife…

His shoulder burns suddenly. Gloriously. It's like a tether, pulling him down into the dark. " _Please_ ," he begs, utterly shameless. "I'm yours. I'm all yours. Come deep inside me, where you belong. So I can feel how completely you own me."

Bass pushes harder with the gun. He feels dizzy with how fucking hot this is. Dangerous. Not just because of the gun (which is loaded, but not cocked, and the safety is on), but because at any minute anyone could…

The door opens. Bass can hear it, and he knows it's the bar. He can hear the couple coming out, laughing. He pushes even harder with the gun in a 'shut the fuck up' way, holding his breath in case they can hear. But still fucking Miles. Holy fucking hell but it's hot.

Miles is not stupid. He bites his lip again, managing to stay quiet – even though it's hard as hell. Hard as fucking hell. Appropriately so, really. And… fuck, but he should not be enjoying it this much.

But he is. And suddenly, it's not just the need to stay quiet that has him biting his lip. And it's only the need to stay quiet that keeps him from begging Bass for mercy.

Thankfully the couple turn the other way and walk off, laughing, without getting close enough to realise what's going on.

Bass lets go the breath he was holding. "Good," he purrs, stroking the gun down over Miles' spine. Coming to rest on his ass, just above where he's pushed inside. "I do own you. I own every bit of you. I could fuck you with my sidearm and you'd just beg for more, wouldn't you?" Not that he plans on doing it. But fuck does it sound twistedly good. Even as a fantasy. "Beg me again… if you do it nice enough I might take pity on you…"

" _Yes_ ," Miles gasps. "Fuck, yes, I'm yours, I'm fucking yours; use me, take me, own me, _anything_ , my General. _Anything_. Please. Please let me be yours. It's all I want. All I need. Please."

He keeps his head down, wanting the surrender to be obvious and clear. Wanting Bass to know that he means it.

Which is when Bass pulls straight out of him. And it kills him to do it, but he shoves his cock back in his trousers and (carefully) zips them up. "Sort yourself out. You look like a cheap whore. And I don't screw cheap whores," he says, yanking on his hair but then letting go and walking out of they alley. Because if he doesn't, he might lose his nerve and go back to fucking him.

Miles looks like his knees are really going to give way at that. For a moment he can't move, and then he moves fast, tugging his clothing back up and into place, and re-fastening his trousers. It's agony – very real agony – though he doesn't even think of trying to finish himself off. Even though it wouldn't take much. He's too far under now.

When he's done, he follows Bass out of the alley – managing to keep his head up and his expression level. But it isn't easy.

"Come on. Much as this was fun, I don't actually want to share your screams with anyone," Bass says, and starts off at a _very_ brisk pace. If a little stiff-legged.

Miles doesn't argue. He just follows.

And fuck, but it should not feel this good.

***

Thankfully it's not that far a walk back and it's dark enough that the few people they do pass are content with polite nodding of heads. When they get to the house, Bass fumbles in his pocket for the key (strange how you forget things like having keys ready, it hasn't even been a year). He hooks the large loop around his finger and swings the key and little clear plastic numbered tally back and forth. "What do you think of our digs?" he asks.

Because it's big. Really big. Bigger than any house Bass has ever stayed in. It has a porch. And a huge garden that wraps around on three sides. And a fucking drive and a garage and trees and there's plenty of distance between it and the neighbours. Bass smirks and waits to see Miles' reaction. Boy has he ever scored.

"…I think you fucking outdid yourself this time," Miles says. "I dread to think what you did to that poor mayor. He won't have seen what hit him."

He looks up at the house. Even _Ben_ didn't have a house this nice.

Bass leans in, breathing the alcohol on Miles' breath. "It wasn't the Mayor I had to do a number on," he points out, then pulls back with a sly wink and swaggers up to the house. Boy does he ever feel good. He slides the key in and only hesitates a moment before he turns it, feeling the barrels turn inside. There's more surprises than just lube and the house, but he plans on saving those for the morning.

"Come on… welcome to the Matheson-Monroe… Baker-Fischer mansion," he says, gesturing Miles inside.

Inside… is just as promising and impressive as outside. The furniture is sparse but neat, and Miles very much gets the impression that the Mayor maintains places like this to keep unexpected visitors sweet. Maybe he's had threats. Maybe he's just being cautious. Hard to say without actually meeting the man, but either option makes a lot of sense.

"Fuck," he breathes, looking around. "You really _did_ outdo yourself."

Bass' grin would power a nuclear sub all through the winter. He puts his hands together and does a tiny little bow. "Your appreciation is all I need, Miles. Now… would you like me to show you the Master Suite, before the lovebirds come back?" The glint in his eyes going sharper, as he waves at the steps down to the basement. "You'll like it. I promise."

Miles' mindset has come back up a little on the walk over, but it's clearly not going to take much to push him right back under. He gives a little grin of his own, but it fades to something rather more intent as he closes the distance between him and Bass – moving right in but not making contact, even though he's only a breath away as he whispers, " _please_."

The distance between them crackles like static, and it's all Bass can do not to shove him to the floor and fuck him in the hallway. All he can do. Even though his heart is pounding like hell, he lifts his right hand and places his index finger on Miles' lips. "Then go downstairs, like a good Marine, and your General will reward your undying loyalty," he suggests. Eyes not moving from his. Not even blinking for as long as he can manage. Prepared to stare him down if need be.

There's a little glint of pleasure in Miles' eyes at that. Obedience does not rule out fun, after all. It just… defines it more sharply.

Mmmm.

"Yes, _sir_ ," he whispers, despite the finger, and then he lets his eyes drop just before he moves, setting off down the stairs.

Down. Down is not where bedrooms should be. Bedrooms are up. Down is for… well. Basements.

Dungeons.

OK, fuck, don't think that now. Really, don't.

The _bedroom_ in the basement is wide and high-ceilinged. The walls are rough, grey concrete – and it definitely looks like the sort of place you might secret away your teenage son whilst he goes through his grunge rock period. The only windows are narrow and high up, but they let in enough moonlight to spark off enough memories all of their own; moonlight which falls over the freshly-made bed against the back wall.

When Miles gets to the bottom of the stairs, he's too impressed – and too hopeful – to even think about resisting, so instead he drops down onto his knees in the middle of the room, lifting his hands to put them up on his head, fingers locked at the base of his skull.

Bass follows Miles down the stairs, eyes raking over his form as he goes. The lithe lines of his torso, the gentle curve of his ass. The strong, sharp angles of his shoulders. All his. All his and no one else's. And here with no one looking, he can drink the man in at leisure.

It's also sort of exciting coming to their second ever bedroom. It's almost like they're holding some illicit affair in hotel rooms across the country. Stolen moments when no one can stop them. It makes these times even more special than they already would be. He doesn't look around the room when they get into it, because he's already memorised the important things. And the most important thing in the room is Miles. His Miles. His Miles who drops to his knees without being asked, eliciting another smile Bass can't keep hidden. He paces over and strokes his fingers through Miles' hair lovingly. "That's better," he coos. "Isn't it better when you do as you're told? You remember the first time I told you to kneel with your hands on your head?"

Bass does. He remembers every last minute of it. He moves to stroke a knuckle over Miles' cheek, down to tilt his head up to look at him.

Every touch, however small… feels like electricity. Miles is sure the electricity in the world isn't all gone, oh no… it just exists between him and Bass, now. Every brush of fingers over his skin, through his hair… feels better than he could ever have possibly imagined. Even now, after six full months together, it's still as incredible as it was the first time. As it is every time.

He looks up, rapt and adoring. Even on his knees… he feels like the ruler of the world, but it's a world he'd package up and give to Bass without question.

He nods. "Yes." He does remember. He'll never, ever forget. The way it felt. The way he _craved_. The way Bass showed him what glorious, glorious freedom there was to be found in surrender. "Yes. I remember."

"If you're very, very good, I'll let you do it again. I'll let you ride my cock. Let you sit in my lap and fuck yourself on me. And when your legs start to shake, I'll push you on your back and ream you open." Bass drops down to one knee – still higher than him – and a hand around his throat tilting back as he speaks into his ear. Rough and low. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he asks. Even as his other hand moves fast and snaps a cuff on one wrist. Then the other.

Miles' eyes go dark, and he feels suddenly like he's been punched in the stomach, knocking all the breath out of him. " _Yes_ ," he gasps. " _Fuck_ , yes. _Please_."

And then… the handcuffs. Which come out of nowhere, and _fuck_ but the man really has planned all this because he's just got everything to hand, the moment he needs it. Which is just… fucking hot. And a little scary.

Plus… they haven't used the handcuffs since Allentown. Miles has thought about it a couple of times but never gotten as far as doing it… which makes this all the more intense. Connects this moment with those memories, and makes his shoulder burn in the process.

Bass reads every little reaction on Miles' face, and it makes him so fucking happy it hurts. Oh yes. He knew it was a good idea. Knew it was a good idea to go off and do sensible things so he was ready, and Miles would be half-cocked and more pliable. And ever so slightly guilty. He noses behind an ear, then flickers his tongue out to drag slow, slow lines over the skin there. Breathing over it to dry it, before licking it wet again. Not touching him anywhere else. And when he's had enough of that, he purr-growls right in his ear… "Up. Now, soldier. Up."

Still in his personal space, and knowing it's going to be hard because of that and the handcuffs. And not giving the slightest of fucks.

Hard, but not impossible. Miles manages to rise more or less gracefully to his feet, though as he does he gets a sudden headrush that almost has him down again – not at the shift in position, but at the way Bass' voice just cuts through him.

He manages to keep his footing, feeling steadier after a moment. And though he doesn't speak this time, there's a hell of a lot in his eyes. A hell of a lot of need… and maybe a little hope, too.

Bass stays down on one knee, and puts his hands on Miles' ankles. He strokes slowly over his calves – up over his knees – fingers trailing to tickle the space between his thighs. When he reaches his crotch he rubs his palm over the rough fabric, finding Miles' straining, leaking cock and tracing the lines of it with a fingertip. "There's so many things I want to do with you," he says, still palming his erection even as he tugs the belt undone and out of the loops with his other hand. "So many, many things. I wonder how much I can fit in tonight before you go insane?" he wonders, and then shoves his pants down to his knees.

He rests his head on Miles' leg, tongue stroking over the tent in his boxers. "Would you like to feel my mouth, Miles? Would you enjoy that?"

Maybe he's weird for messing with the power like this. It's not like he knows any better. He just knows it feels good on both sides of the equation, and he doesn't see why some acts have to be considered one or the other. Not if he doesn't want them to.

" _Fuckyesplease_ ," Miles gasps at that, his balance wavering again but only a little. Because… fuck, it sounds so wonderful. All of it sounds so wonderful. And he needs it so very, very badly. "Please. Anything. Drive me insane, if that's what you want. I'm all yours. All yours."

He can't say it enough. Can't get past how much he means it. How badly he needs to scream it to the rafters. At least he's free to do that, now – and surely will, before long.

Bass slides a warm hand into Miles' boxers, stroking his length with his thumb first. Just… revelling in how soft and hard and wonderful it is. He loves it. Loves sucking it. Loves stroking it. Loves sitting on it. Loves everything about it. He pulls it very carefully out, then places the softest of kisses down near the base. "You smell so fucking good," he says, between little, soft pecks up towards the crown. "Taste even better. Do you know what you taste of?" His tongue flickering out to drag roughly up along underneath it, pausing to worry with the tip of it just below the flare of the head.

The attention is good. Really, really fucking good. Not nearly enough, but of course that's the point, and Miles is well-aware by now that he's twisted enough to enjoy it regardless.

The question, however, throws him a little. Mostly because he isn't sure if it's a _trick_ question or not. "…Sex and insane need?" he tries, carefully.

That makes Bass laugh hotly over the cock in his hand. "That too," he agrees, then tongues harder over that sensitive little spot, one hand keeping Miles' dick still, the other on his hip. Then he drags hard over to the very end, and squirms his tongue over and over at the opening. Stroking him root to tip a few times for good measure. But he knows he can't do this forever, so he wraps his lips around and suckles gently as his hands move up to unfasten Miles' shirt. As high as he can reach whilst his mouth is occupied. And when he can't reach any higher, he lets it slide out of his mouth and surges up to kiss his belly as he makes light work of the rest of the buttons. Fucking buttons.

And then that's as undressed as he can make him, without uncuffing his hands or removing his boots. Neither of which he wants to do just yet. So he presses in close and grabs his ass with both hands as he grinds against him. "You think you're ready for the bed yet, soldier, or do you need more romancing?"

And that makes Miles suddenly dizzy with need – though a grin crosses his face at the same time. "Oh, I think that's up to you, General," he says, as levelly as he can. "Though you know how I enjoy the romancing…"

Even though the urge to drop down on his knees again is strong. Really fucking strong. It's like a pervasive, heavy heat that fills him up, winding around the dizzy need in his head. Magnifying it and making him _want_. _Want_.

Bass puts his hand on Miles' shoulder, palm under the mark. Fingers resting on the stark white lines. "Then I'll romance you like you're my prom date, and it's your first time," he suggests, but he starts to walk him backwards towards the bed. "Only you didn't realise your date wants to hear you hurting and screaming and loving it…"

"You sick, sick fuck," Miles can't help breathing at that, in between trying to pretend he's not quite so turned on by that suggestion as he is.

And when they reach the bed, Bass moves in a blur. Shoves Miles backwards onto the wide, perfectly made bed and is on top of him in a heartbeat. Hands on his shoulders, mouth grabbing his throat and biting down hard.

As they hit the bed, Miles doesn't resist Bass moving on top of him – oh no, he wants it. Wants him. Wants the man to hold him down and take him every which way until he can't see from bliss. The biting just makes it worse – or better, depending on how you look at it – sending even more need flooding through him, and making him cry out; an incoherent scream of pain and ecstasy that dissolves into a long string of "yesyesyesyesfuckfuckfuckyes!"

Bass drags his fingernails hard over Miles' chest, down to his nipples which he grabs and holds on tightly. Not doing anything. Not… yet. He laughs against the pink skin of Miles' throat, and kisses it better. "Such a good job I picked a horny little suck fuck for a prom date, isn't it?" he asks. But before he can answer, he smashes his mouth to Miles' and drags his tongue over his lips. Pushing inside to swallow the screams as he twists his nipples hard enough to fucking hurt. A lot. Rubbing his still-clothed ass all over Miles' dick.

And there are a lot of screams. It's true that there usually are, when it's Miles, but right now he feels even more inclined towards making a lot of noise. Maybe… it's the pent-up need inside him. Maybe it's just because he can. He screams into the kiss until he can't breathe with it and has to stop, and gasps hard when the kiss breaks, fighting to get the oxygen back in.

"We must be made for each other," he manages, with just the barest flicker of devilment in his eyes.

"Well you're not fucking made for anyone else," Bass insists, with an answering – darker – flicker. And then he decides it would be a good idea to draw his knife, and hold it up between them. "I'll write my name all over you so if anyone ever tries to steal you they'll see you belong to me…"

With a smooth movement he flips his grip on the knife, and has it pointed tip-down. Tip down over Miles' throat. Lowering it so just the very edge kisses his skin. "Now hold still. You can scream when I get lower… I think we should play chicken. I think we should see which of us caves first…" He presses the knife harder. Harder. Not enough to break skin. And then he starts to slide down from the bed, dragging the knife over Miles' sternum and towards his belly.

The mere sight of the knife kicks Miles so far under that for a moment he has to consciously remind himself that he can still breathe. Even though it feels like he can't. Even thought it feels like those words, that threat, are all pressing down on his chest, holding him here, making him breathless and dizzy under the weight of it all.

Fuck, it's wonderful.

" _Yes_ ," he gasps. The other problem with that knife is that it makes him lose all grip on reality. Common sense. Sense in general. Even though his heart is suddenly thumping in his chest… he _needs_. "Yes. Please. _Please_."

Bass drops from the bed to land between Miles' legs, and he flicks the knife sharply over the rise of Miles' navel. Drawing the faintest trace of blood just below it. Purposefully, though. He would never let his hand slip doing this. "I think I should write my name on your cock. Make sure you don't let someone else suck it, or slide it into anything it doesn't belong in. Don't you?" he asks, as he strokes Miles' balls slowly, then puts his hand under his dick. Curling around it to hold it still. Pressing more gently when he reaches the soft bed of curls… and then drawing the faintest line over his cock. Making sure he's ready to hold him still. There's next to no pressure there and his wrist is loose to cope in case Miles does buck up. Which he hopes he won't.

"Now… say please."

"Yes! _Yes_!" Miles screams, managing to keep still by transferring all his energy into the words. "Only you, only ever you, fuckfuckfuckfuck _please_ , Bass, please!"

He sounds… utterly, utterly wrecked. Feels it, too. But even the slightest brush of the knife _there_ is just… beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond anything.

Bass bends his head and kisses the slight jut of his hip-bone, smiling broadly because Miles won't be able to see. "Don't you fucking come," he says instead, and draws the first diagonal line of the M from right to left close to the tip of his dick. "Don't you come. I want you to come on my lap, fucking yourself silly on my dick. And if you don't… believe me you'll regret it." Swipe down. Half way.

At first, Miles is worried he _is_ going to come, but the intensity and – fuck – the terror of what Bass is doing somehow push him past it, into a mindspace where the pleasure exists on a different level. It's still physical, oh yes, but it's more than that, and the world almost whites out as he starts to coast it, breathing going suddenly slower, though still ragged as hell.

"Yes," he whispers, raptured now. "Yes. Yes. Yours. Anything you say. Anything."

"And when you do come…" – swipe up – "…you'll scream my name like it's the only word in the world. Won't you?" He presses down harder. Being very careful not to cut him here, just to make him feel it. Really feel it.

And fuck but does he ever feel great right now. He can tell Miles is going out of his head, and it just makes him want this all the more. Makes him want _him_ all the more. Makes him burn.

" _Yes_ ," Miles promises, sounding further and further gone with every breath. "Oh yes. My Bass. My General. My world. Anything for you."

He's drifting completely now, far beneath the surface, sinking deeper and deeper. His mind is still vaguely processing the pain of what Bass is doing to him… but it isn't really pain anymore. Not in any normal understanding of the word.

" _Mine_ ," Bass growls, swiping the last line of the M before moving the knife out of the way and swallowing Miles' cock as far as he can take it, pushing down until his balls hit his chin and pressing his teeth in hard before scraping up and off. And surging over him to grab his face in both hands and kiss the taste of him into his mouth.

Miles is about to agree wholeheartedly when Bass goes down on him like that, making the agreement dissolve into a cry of blissed shock – which is then stifled even further as Bass kisses him.

This does not make the agreement – or appreciation, or need – any less. Just somewhat less coherent.

Bass sits back, grinding his ass against Miles' crotch, hands back on his shoulders for balance. "Fuck, but you taste good," he says, then runs his tongue over Miles' bottom lip. "I might just have to lick you clean afterwards…"

He pauses for just a second's thought, then climbs off all of a sudden, moving to strip Miles entirely below the waist with lightning-fast efficiency, before doing the same to himself. And then, with complete ease, Bass rolls over onto his back, and puts his hands under his head. "Climb on. I want to see you try to fuck yourself on me with no hands. So I know how much you want it."

And Miles is too far under to argue. Far too far, especially after having been stripped so thoroughly and so _deliberately_. His eyes are utterly black and he just nods, and starts to lift himself up. His hands are still cuffed behind his head so he keeps them there – if nothing else, he can use his arms for balance. Slowly, so as not to lose said balance, he turns and straddles Bass' hips, getting himself positioned before he tries to do anything complicated – like rolling his own hips to push Bass' thankfully hard cock up and around and, before he can lose his balance (or his mind) to catch the tip and sink down on it in one.

And though he had more than a little preparation back in that alley… it's still a lot to do all at once, especially with gravity to help. Which would be why he _screams_ like he's been split in two and, for a moment, can't move.

Oh, but that feels good. Feels nice having the man astride him. Feels even better as he slowly sinks down over his cock. And all Bass has to do is lie there – lie there and watch. Watch the expression on Miles' face. Watch his throat when he calls out. Watch the faint sheen of sweat on his chest. He moves his hands to put one on each thigh, stroking encouragingly.

"Yes," he purrs. "Just like that. Keep going. Make it good for me, my whore of a Marine…"

" _Yes_ ," Miles echoes, distant again – the scream having left his voice ragged, but there's little in the world that could all-out silence him. "Yes, my General. Always."

And once he pushes past the pain – which really doesn't take long, especially considering the way his mind is processing it at the moment – it all just feels _good_. Utterly fucking good. He starts to move his hips, lifting up and letting himself drop back down, over and over, starting slow but gradually speeding up, riding his lover's fucking wonderful cock. And… staring down at him all the while, not in any kind of defiance but simply _openness_. Making it undeniably clear that he _knows_ who he belongs to. Knows and _loves_.

Bass doesn't once look away. Miles' eyes are so beautiful. Such deep, warm depths. He could drown in them. Drown and never be saved. And fuck but he is making it good. Really good. But it's always just the slow side of perfect. Always just that little bit not-quite-hard-enough. One hand slides up to take Miles' cock, hefting it slowly. Running his thumb up and down the shaft. His other hand finding his balls and rolling them slowly back and forth.

"When we get your family," Bass says, not even processing that maybe 'during sex' is not the time to mention someone's brother, "I am going to find you the biggest fucking house. With the biggest fucking bed. And the biggest fucking basement. And I am going to fuck you in every single room, over every single piece of furniture I can find. You aren't going to be able to sit for a year…"

"I won't need to," Miles replies, softly. So far away. "So long as you lie and hold me in between… that's all I'll need…"

It really feels that way right now. All the world needs is a) his family safe, and b) Bass, and it's complete. He's complete. Everything would be complete.

The touches to his cock nearly white out his mind, though the sensations slowly blend into one with everything else; a rapidly-spreading nova of bliss, and one that seems to go beyond mere need. It isn't just about getting off. Isn't even close. It's about something far deeper, far more real and primal and essential. And perfect.

"I'll hold you," Bass insists, his voice gentle with love. That terrible, painful feeling that makes his heart ache. That makes him know he'd do anything for him. Anything. Just to see him smile. "I'll hold you and whisper I love you into your ear until you drift into dreams of us. I'll kiss you clean and lick away the hurts… I'll hold you safe in my arms and keep you from anything bad… I'll do everything in the world. Because I have you."

Which is when he moves. All of a sudden he has his arms around Miles, and he surges over and pushes him onto his back. Still buried deep inside him. Miles' legs go either side and he reaches around to hold onto his hips, using his weight to bear down and into him. "I'll hold you and love you, and any pain I cause, I'll fix. I'll break you just to mend you. I'll shatter you into a million pieces so I can glue you back together with my love in all the cracks so you're stronger." That slightly-mad look in his eyes, now. The one that says he means something more than is possibly sane. "Because without you I'm nothing. And I can't stand the thought that you could ever be anything without me."

"I'm nothing without you," Miles whispers, meaning every goddamn syllable. "Just an angry soldier with an excessive love of fighting and Scotch. But with you… I feel like I come alive. Like I could do anything. Like… _we_ can do anything. You and me, Bass. You and me, always."

He's on his back now, hands still locked and cuffed behind his head, pinned down and completely at Bass' mercy… not that he wasn't before. It's just more pronounced now. And he loves it.

"Please," he whispers, softly. "Please. Take me. Claim me. Own me. I'm all yours."

"Scream for me," Bass asks. Asks, not orders. Because he knows he doesn't have to. Not know. Not when he has hold of the man's hips and heart. Not when he's got him handcuffed and on his back. Not when he's got his cock buried so far in he swears he's stroking his tailbone. He pulls back, to push back in faster. Yes. Fuck yes. Again. Again. Struggling to get enough purchase to pound into him with all his strength. Leaning down over him so he's stretching him wider with each slam of his hips forwards and down. Coming home. Where he should be. Where he always should be. In his Miles. In his wonderful, broken soldier. Home.

"MILES!"

"BASS!" Miles screams, very much like it's the only word left in the world – or, in fact, one of only two. The other of which is, "PLEASE!"

He's right on the brink, physically and mentally, but he doesn't come. Not without being told he can. He screams again, incoherently this time, and although he's fighting to hold on, he's not consciously aware of it anymore. It's all just… sensation. Sensation dialled up to eleven and pushing him those last few lingering steps right out of his own mind.

"YES!" Bass yells in return, and he grabs hold of his lover's cock. Grabs hold and strokes as hard and fast as he can whilst still fucking him. It's a bit confusing because his mind doesn't know how to cope but his body is determined. And then he uses his fingernails and scratches him almost raw. "YES. YES. YES."

" _PLEASE_!" Miles absolutely _howls_ , sounding simultaneously like he's been stabbed in the chest and like he thinks it's the best feeling in all of existence. " _Please_." But the second time is just a soft whisper in comparison.

And then… he's gone. He slips completely out of his head and everything just… slows. Stills. Stops… and leaves him completely adrift, and completely serene, the world vanishing into the black.

Bass can feel it. Can feel the minute Miles goes. Can see it in the way his eyes roll up. The way his breathing changes. The way his body just… surrenders. And it's the most beautiful thing in the world. He's so caught, he can do nothing but stare for long moments. Stare at his wonderful, wonderful Miles. But the ache in his chest for him makes him relent, and he bends down to whisper in his ear. "Break for me, Miles. Break in my hand. It's okay. It's time." And with that, he places the softest of kisses to the side of his mouth, as he slams into him hard enough to rock the whole bed.

And Miles just comes all at once, his body tensing as the wave of completion hits and then relaxing again on the outbreath. On some level he remembers his promise to say Bass' name, and he does – but it's a whisper, a gasp of utter perfection, rather than a scream. And when it's all over, he just drops back, every last ounce of strength fading out of him at once and leaving him completely pliant – completely helpless – under his lover's hands.

Bass wants to hold on. He really does. He wants to just savour the sounds, the feelings, the fucking wonderful sight of him… but all it takes is his name on Miles' lips and he can't. With a cry of happy defeat, he drops his head onto the bed beside Miles', clutching at his cock as he spends himself inside of him. It's not the physicality, it's… it's everything else. It's knowing that he's won. He's won Miles' heart and soul. He's won the surrender of his fierce, terrifying brother in arms. He shudders as his body finally stops. But he goes from on top of him to surrounding him in a breath. Arms and legs wrapped anywhere he can reach. Kissing at his jaw. Over and over and over.

"OhfuckMilesIloveyouIloveyou," he blurts, when he can stop the kissing long enough. "Oh fuck but I love you."

Miles… is completely gone. On one level he's aware of Bass coming, Bass holding him, Bass kissing him, and he's very much in favour of all these things. Very much. But this… is more than that. So very, very much more. There is physicality and it's there and it's important… but what it's really about… is deeper. It's about belonging. Certainty. Right. Love. Hope. Safety.

Home.

Home will always be where Bass is.

Bass can tell Miles isn't quite there, so he scoops him up and rolls them over so Miles is on top. And then he wraps his ankles around Miles', and an arm around his shoulders. The other stroking through his hair. He has to keep touching him. Has to. It's the most important thing in the world.

"Just stay here, Miles. Just stay here. I've got you. I love you. I've got you. You're so fucking perfect… so perfect…"

He knows he's gushing, but he can't help it. The words automatically pouring out. Needing to say all the love that makes him overflow. Kissing his face. Over. And over. "You're so wonderful, Miles. Fuck but you were incredible."

Miles' still-cuffed wrists drop down to rest just above Bass' head, but they're not holding him up. Nothing is. Right now, wherever he goes is wherever Bass puts him. He's still staring back – now down – at his lover, but it's obvious he's not all there.

He isn't. He's drifting far beneath the surface, caught in a current of something slow and incredible, borne on through the welcome darkness and it's… the best feeling in all the world.

The words try to make their way through to him, down to him, and on some level his mind does process them because he nods slowly, several times… but it's the only response he's capable of for the moment.

It's okay. He doesn't need to answer. The look in his eyes is answer enough. The way he seems so utterly blissed. It makes everything sort of… shine and glow and tingle. Bass' heart expands in his chest like it's going to explode. And he feels like he's bigger than his own body. He feels like maybe he fills the whole room. Like if someone moved the chair, it would be like they were touching him deep inside.

Fuck. This is better than that time they 'accidentally' got high.

He props his elbow on the bed, then wraps his hand on Miles' face to hold him up so he can just lie and stare down at him. And then he just… breathes. Breathes in the air that Miles breathes out. And it's almost hard for him to work out where one of them ends and the other begins.

"Miles…"

"…"

Miles tries to get a word out, but it's like the speech part of his brain just isn't working. It's very, very odd – or it would be, if he was coherent enough to process it. It isn't a worrying or unpleasant sensation, just… strange. The words are there in his head, but he simply isn't able to vocalise a single one.

But he's clearly happy – well beyond happy, in fact – and the look in his eyes says more than words ever could.

"It's okay," Bass tells him. "I know. I know." He leans up and bumps their noses together. "I really, really fucking do."

God but he could just lie like this until morning. And maybe beyond. Toast be damned. (He's very much looking forward to the toast, though.)

And something at that… just smashes through it all, making Miles _collapse_ against Bass, curling over him, the need to be held finally pushing through the serenity – though not displacing it.

He tries to speak again, concentrating a little harder to drag himself back through the mental fog. It isn't easy. Not when it feels so good to just _exist_ in it.

"…please…"

"It's okay," Bass tells him again, stroking the back of his neck. Rubbing low down over the arch of his spine. "It's okay. Just stay here with me. Forever. Wherever we go, I've got you. Whatever happens, I've got you. I love you. And I know, Miles. I know…"

He holds on a little tighter to make sure he can feel it.

"…always…" Miles promises.

It feels… like perfection. Better than just sex. Better than anything else. It feels like all the world is _right_.

"It's funny… I always thought I knew what happiness was. Turns out I didn't. Because I didn't feel it before. Not really." Bass chews his lip, realising it's… a bit of an odd thing to say. "If Ben turns the power back on… I am not going back to the Marines. I'll do anything but that. Anything. I don't care what. I'll go back to fucking school if I have to."

_If Ben turns the power back on_.

The odd – and perhaps worrying – thing is that Miles is increasingly of the opinion that he wouldn't want the power back on. What that says about him… he isn't sure.

"…me neither…" he manages. "…You and me. All I need. You and me."

"Well… I've got you. And you've got me. So you should just… go to sleep," Bass says, kissing at his earlobe. "Because I just want to stare at you. For hours. I… I think you broke me back," he admits, with a wry little smile.

Miles doesn't take much convincing. Not when he feels so wonderful – and so exhausted – and so content to just… lie. To let himself start to drift on a different tide – not pleasure, or surrender, but contentedness. He nods a couple of times, curling in and… in moments, he's gone.

When he finally drifts off, Bass reaches up for one last, lingering kiss. And then he holds him. And holds him. Until finally the feeling of being bigger means he can't feel anything anymore. And the next moment, he's asleep too.

***

Miles comes to with a soft jump, the lingering echoes of whatever he was dreaming fading away almost at once.

There's light filtering into the room through the narrow windows high above them, so it's clearly morning of some variety. Exactly how long he slept, he doesn't know, but it feels like it was for an age and…

That's when the memories start to filter back. A lot of homebrew alcohol. A rowdy bar. An alley… oh fucking hell… and then Bass bringing him back here and…

…fuck, they have _got_ to do that again.

He lifts his head, blinking slowly. He's still draped on top of Bass, curled into him, and… fuck, his wrists are still cuffed.

Seriously. Fuck. How out of it was he last night?

Bass feels Miles stirring on top of him but he knows it's him. So he doesn't open his eyes. Instead he yawns a jackal-wide yawn. "…s'it breakfast?" he mumbles… hands finding Miles' sides and sliding down to grab his ass, and grind him down. "Mmmmm."

Miles just presses in. He's still pretty out of it, and everything feels really _very_ good.

But he's regained enough coherence to lean in and whisper in Bass' ear. "…Morning, _General_."

Because he can.

Which is precisely the right thing to say to wake Bass up. He surges up and presses in for a rough kiss – eyes still shut – and rolls them over so he's on top again. On top and grinding hard against his ass. "You feel good," Bass says, his voice still a little out of it. Even if he is rutting against him. "God, you felt good last night. I think I broke my dick in you. Should I check?"

… _fuck_.

Miles just falls back, not an ounce of resistance in him, staring up with wide, dark eyes. "You should," he whispers. "You _really_ should."

Propped up on one arm, Bass reaches down and makes a show of groping around. And yep. There's his cock. Still mostly inside him. He pulls out, then sits back on his haunches to examine it.

"What do you think?" he asks, stroking it with one hand, eyes lazily moving up and over Miles. "Does it look broken?"

"It looks fucking wonderful," is Miles' contribution to this, made all the more resonant by how rough his voice still is, from the night before. "But maybe you should make certain…"

Yes, he's aware he is bad. And no, he is not remotely sorry.

Bass tilts his head to one side. "What do you think I should do with it?" he asks, before biting his lip at… ah… how raw but good it feels. Eyes going slightly out of focus. He teases himself slowly. Very, very slowly. And knowing Miles is watching just makes his toes curl. Normally they have their hands all over one another… so having him watch is something of a novelty. "…should I keep… ah… stroking it?"

"… _Yes_ ," Miles whispers, his own cock very much interested too but his attention still all on Bass. "And when it's too much… you could slide it in me. _And take what's yours_."

Bass' eyes are already dark, but they narrow to jealous slits and rove over Miles like they're fucking him on their own. "Oh… I will… believe me, I will. And you'll scream like a fucking bitch in heat, won't you? Tell me how much you need it… tell me how empty your ass feels…"

Fuck. Fuck but this is too hot. Miles all sleepy and tousled and cuffed. Lying below him and just… watching. And letting that wonderful mouth run. Bass hisses and grips tighter. Strokes faster. Hand twisting and squeezing and doing all the things he likes. Imagining how Miles must want to be doing them instead. How Miles must be staring at him, like he is at Miles. Fuck. He is not going to last long, and he doesn't want to.

"I need you," Miles whispers, never once looking away. "I need you more than I need oxygen. I need you in me, taking me, claiming me. Reminding me where I belong. Who I belong _to_. So… please. _Please_. Push into me. Fill the emptiness inside me. Make me whatever you need me to be."

One thing's for sure – the words may have come back, but his mind hasn't. Not yet. And not any time soon, if he carries on like this.

Any thoughts Bass was entertaining about drawing this out go. They go right out the window. He grabs Miles' knees and shoves them up into his chest. Slides in between his thighs and pushes right back into him. He's still loose from last night; still willing and open and relaxed. Fuck but it's perfect. He holds for a moment, revelling in the feeling of Miles' body welcoming him. Holding him.

"What I need you to be," he growls, "is _this_." He punctuates the word with a hard thrust. Eyes on his. Waiting for him to be ready.

"…beg me." Two words. Two words and he knows he has him.

" _Please_ ," Miles whispers, rapt. Feeling only completion and right as Bass pushes back into him. "Please, Bass. I'm all yours. Always yours. I love you. I need you."

He just lies beneath the other man, open and willing, staring up as if caught – but very happy about it.

"You have me," Bass tells him. "You have me…"

And that's all the talking he's prepared to do on the subject, before he's back to pounding him through the mattress again. Hands holding on tight. Fingernails digging in. "…so take me," he growls… and yells at the top of his lungs as the coiling heat explodes in his belly, filling Miles all over again. Oh fuck yes.

Which is just… bliss made manifest. " _Fuck_ …" Miles breathes, eyes rolling up at how damnably, damnably good that feels. How _right_. How _amazing_ Bass looks and sounds and _is_.

And. And. 'Take me' sounds very much like an invitation. Very much. But Miles is so far under that he's not actually sure… and for once, he doesn't just act anyway. "Please," he says, softly. "Please."

Bass nearly collapses on top of him. Panting heavily. Feeling like… feeling like he's fucking… god or something. Head spinning and body slowly cooling. With difficulty, he blinks down at him.

"Please… what?" Bass asks. Hand sliding between them to find Miles' cock. "Beg me… and whatever you beg me for… you'll get it. Anything, Miles. Anything."

"Please… please bring me off. Ride me, stroke me, suck me, anything, just… _please_. I need to come screaming your name."

There's no shame in Miles' voice, when he asks. None at all. But there is a fuck-tonne of need.

Bass' lips curl into a wicked, wicked smile. "You're going to have to pick one, because I can't do all three at once, Miles. Pick one…" Yes, he knows the man is down and out. But he also knows Miles will love the emotional torment.

There is a flicker of emotional torment in Miles' eyes for a moment, it's true. But only a moment – because the great joy of being in this kind of mindspace is that it makes everything _else_ go quiet… and focused.

"Stroke me," he whispers. "Like the first time. Like the very first time."

Bass laughs at that. "For you? Anything. Anything, Miles." He shifts and sits back on his haunches – still buried deep in his ass – and slides a slow hand up the inside of Miles' thigh.

"That first time? I was sort of terrified, you know. Terrified I would fuck it up." His fingers brush over Miles' balls, just once. "You were so fucking hot and I was so horny I thought I was going to die. And your cock… fuck, Miles. But your cock is beautiful. Did you know that? Beautiful. I love it. I love everything about it." He trails fingertips over him, then walks them back down to the root. "I just knew I had to touch it. I knew I had to make it good for you. I knew I had to do it, or I would die."

His hand curls surely around, now. Holding. Waiting.

" _Beg. Me_."

The words are wonderful. Every last one. Every syllable, and all the spaces in between. All for him. And Miles would be utterly triumphant if he wasn't so completely… down.

"Please," he gasps, softly; even the slightest brush of contact enough to make his mind fog over – and the firmer touch pushing him deeper still. "Please, Bass. I need you more than anything. I need you to claim me all over again, so I never, ever forget that I'm yours. Please."

Bass' hand goes tighter around his cock. Almost painfully tight. "You are mine, Miles. You were mine from the minute I laid eyes on you. You were always meant to be mine. And the minute you kissed me back… you were bought and sold."

A stroke – slow and agonising. "…and when you let me touch you… Miles… that's the first time either of us _really_ did this, and I know you know that too."

" _Yes_ ," Miles gasps, partly at the touching and partly at the words. "Yes. I know, Bass. I know. _It's always been you_."

"So now I'm going to remind you. I'm going to remind you that only I can make you feel like this. Only I could ever make you feel like this. Because we were meant to be, Miles. We were fucking meant to be." So he strokes him again. And again. Not holding back – much like the first time. Brutal and hard and loving. Chasing every way Miles' legs seize, chasing every way his breathing goes ragged. Giving him just what he likes. Just how he needs. Just precisely what the man craves.

"…come undone for me, Miles. Fucking. _Break_."

Miles wraps his legs up around Bass' back, holding him in, holding _on_ ; staring up at him as if he can't look away. Which, right now, he _can't_. He nods several times at the order, open and willing, and then he just comes. Comes hard, comes undone.

But he doesn't scream. Bass' name is the only thing to slip his lips, and he breathes it like a prayer; as though it was the most fundamental truth in all of existence.

And when it's over… he drops back, legs sliding down to the mattress again, not a flicker of energy left in him. Completely pliant beneath his lover's hands.

"Yes," he whispers, very softly. " _Yes_."

The reverent tone of Miles' voice pulls at strings in Bass he is still just getting used to. God, but the man is wonderful even when he's spent. Sticky and panting and lying there with Bass' name on his lips. Christ. Bass keeps on stroking him, but slows his pace down steadily to keep the man coasting on the sensation as long as possible. As long as he dares.

And when he thinks Miles is totally done, he leans in and kisses him. Because… because he can't say anything. Not after that. Nothing could follow that. Just… kissing. Kissing and a dick in his hand, and his dick in Miles' ass. Yes.

Miles kisses him back, but lightly – not remotely interested in being pushy or demanding… only wanting to give. He keeps on staring at Bass as the kiss breaks, his eyes dark but utterly sure.

"Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

Bass' heart kind of breaks and hurts. In all the good ways. He wraps around him and holds on like it's the end of the goddamn world.

"No… thank _you_ ," he whispers. "Thank you… for giving me you."

Given that his hands aren't cuffed down, just together, Miles decides to wrap them up and around Bass, so he can hold on. So he can stroke fingertips over his lover's back, tracing slowly along the top of his spine.

"You have me," he promises. "I'm all yours. And I love it."

Bass laughs. He laughs and nips at his ear. "Well that's good. Because if you didn't, this would kind of suck and be over soon." He nips again. "I haven't even told you the best thing, yet."

"…There's a better thing than a night and a morning of furiously fucked-up sex with you?" Miles can't help asking.

"How about a night and a morning of furiously fucked-up sex… followed by toast?" Bass asks. "Hot and covered in Miles?"

Miles laughs, warm and very amused. "You really did think of everything," he says.

"Yeah," Bass agrees. "I think I fucking did."

***

A few minutes later (when they find the handcuff keys and enough clothes to be presentable, and stop kissing long enough to put the clothes on), Bass and Miles venture slowly upstairs. Bass first, with Miles following close behind.

Bass heads towards the kitchen to start on the coffee (but not the toast) when a little snoring noise catches his attention. He stops in his tracks and puts his finger to his lips to shush Miles… then points to the couch. Where Ollie is lying face down, arm draped over the edge. Draped over the edge and trailing over Jeremy, who is lying on the floor next to him and snoring softly. His face is a mess of melted colours and he's fallen asleep in the clothes he was wearing last night.

Bass slaps a hand over his mouth to contain the giggles, then drags Miles into the kitchen so he can laugh out loud.

"Fuck me!"

Miles doesn't get as far as the kitchen to collapse in hysterics. He makes it about as far as the door frame before he's howling with laughter, trying to drag himself out of Bass' grip so he can go back and look some more.

It really is quite a sight. Both of the other two are still unconscious but they look so fucking _adorable_ together and just what the _fuck_ were they doing last night?

"…Fuck you?" Miles manages, staring back at Bass with utter glee in his eyes. "Fuck me!"

"Why don't we have a camera?" Bass wails. "We need to take a picture of this. Shit, man. Do you think they… you know?" He keeps peering around at them then going back in the kitchen to laugh some more. "Holy shit."

"…Fuck knows but _fuck_..!" is all the coherence Miles can manage at this.

The noise finally gets through to Ollie, and she wakes with a little jump, vaguely aware that she's lying face-down and there's distant laughter and _holy sweet fucking hell_ , her head feels like somebody beat it with a baseball bat. She tries to look up but it's not a very pleasant experience, and she's possessed of a strong need to just _die_ , before the world gets any worse.

And… and… are those memories real? Or fucked-up dreams? Or..?

"…please kill me…" she groans, softly, into the couch.

Bass can't resist. He goes back into the living room and smiles down at the younger man. "Morning, sunshine. Have a good time, I see?"

"…fuck off, Sebastian," Ollie groans, finding a cushion and dragging it over her head. "I'm ready to die now."

Bass drops to one knee near the head of the couch, reaching to rub Ollie's shoulder gently. "But we have toast, Oliver. Toast. Assuming someone else will make it. I got the bread, remember? And toast makes the night before seem fine… trust me…"

Ollie pulls the cushion down harder. "No toast. No moving. No anything. Bad. All bad. All very bad. Bad. Like you. Except in my head. Ow. Fuck."

"I'm not in your head," Bass points out, still cooing softly. "But trust me… the toast will take away the pain and the sickness. And then you will love me. Even if you will pretend you're still mad at me. Even though I didn't get you wasted and…" he peers down at Jeremy and bursts into hysterics again.

"Gfkway," comes the mumbled noise from the man passed out on the floor. "Fkdie."

Something about Jeremy's voice seems to make Ollie jump, and she – very reluctantly – takes the cushion off her head (light is the enemy, oh yes it is) and pushes over just far enough to peer down at him, and…

…oh fuck that's not good…

"Jeremy..?" she says, very softly, because noise is _also_ the enemy, maybe even more so than light.

"Mdead," Jeremy replies. "Gway."

Bass has to get up and go back into the kitchen, grabbing Miles and holding on tight.

Miles – still in something close to hysterics – holds on as well. Taking the opportunity for a little more touching (because he still needs it) but not doing anything excessive. Well. Not excessive for him.

Ollie does not know how to tell Jeremy that he's still covered in eyeliner. And other brightly-coloured things, by the look of it. And… where did they even get it all from? Her memories are a mixed-up haze, but she's sure that sometime after the Macarena but before the ad-libbed tableau about who should be the Twelfth Doctor, someone must have…

…oh no no no, don't think about it…

"…Jeremy… don't be dead…"

"Dead… easier," Jeremy points out, and rolls over to curl up in a ball on his side. "Think drank ocean."

"Jeremy," Bass calls out, over Miles' shoulder (who he is totally still hugging and doesn't care). "How much do you remember about last night?"

"…that wasn't an ocean, that was something brewed in a shed in Hell," Ollie replies, still keeping her voice down. "Jeremy, they're laughing at us…"

Jeremy sits up, grabs the cushion from Ollie, and flings it at the boys in the doorway. "Fuck off. We all met in an inn. And a wizard made me do it."

"What… the Wizard of Oz?" Bass asks, whacking the cushion so it doesn't hit Miles. "Dude. When the fuck did you turn into a Queen?"

The light hurts. The voices hurt. And the flickers of memory are twice as bad. "…Jeremy… uhm… eyeliner…" Ollie manages, then buries her head in the couch again, in the vague hope it might just make everything go away.

"Oh, you two are absolutely fucking priceless!" Miles exclaims, finally managing to calm the laughter enough to speak. "Fuck, this is like that godawful movie with the stag party and the tiger."

Jeremy's hands go up to his face and slap it. Not that he could really tell what's there with just his hands. "I… FUCK!"

Bass sniggers into Miles' shoulder for a moment longer. "Yeah. You kinda are."

Jeremy jumps up and rolls Ollie onto her back. "Why don't you have eyeliner on?" he asks, sounding wounded. "Why me? Why, Ollie? WHY?"

"I don't know!" she exclaims, looking like maybe the answer to this question could somehow be the solution to all their problems, if only she could fucking remember. "It's all a blur! A horrible blur! I think it has something to do with a bet involving the Macarena and Sweet Transvestite, but..-"

And then she claps a hand over her mouth, realising it probably isn't wise to say these things out loud in front of Bass and Miles.

"Sweet… _what_?" Bass asks, letting go of Miles to stalk around them. "And the Macarena? Guys…" he grabs a chair and turns it backwards, sitting and sprawling over the back. "You have been holding out on us."

"Oh god, I hate you," Jeremy says to Ollie. "Couldn't you have lied and said I lost at dare-poker or something?"

"Dare poker?" Bass echoes.

"Someone… shoot me?" Jeremy slams his head into the couch and groans. "It would be a mercy killing."

"Only if they shoot me too," Ollie groans, still not lifting her head. "I don't want to live in this world anymore. I don't want to _live_. My head feels like a Sith Lord put it through a blender."

Miles drops smoothly into a chair of his own, hands folded easily in his lap. "Come on, now. Tell us everything. Before our twisted minds make up possibilities which are worse."

"Coffee," Jeremy insists. "Or at the very least tea. Or something. Come on, have mercy on us…"

Bass kicks Jeremy. "Give us something first and I might."

Jeremy glowers up at him. "I'm covered in makeup, Bass. How much more do you want?"

The man's answering grin is electric. " _Everything._ "

"…You're so fucked…" Miles says, softly, in something like delight. He looks about ready to run off and get the popcorn so he can watch.

"I don't even remember much of it!" Ollie exclaims, lifting her head to glare blearily at Bass, who is closer, and involves less movement. "I'd never been drunk before. Now I have. And now I'm hungover. And _fuck_ , I am _never drinking again_!"

"Yeah, they all say that," Bass reassures him. "But the next time you will forget and it will be fun and you'll drink until your head hurts, but you'll love it anyway…"

"Sorry to say that's probably true," Jeremy agrees. Then he sighs. "Fine. I may or may not have… sung Sweet Transvestite. And. Er. Apparently borrowed someone's face paints. And I may or may not have tried to teach people the Time Warp."

"With the Pelvic Thrust?" Bass asks.

Jeremy glowers. "Coffee. Or no talkee."

"You could make us all toast?"

Jeremy whacks his leg.

"Pelvic… oh, is _that_ why I ache so much..?" Ollie mutters, before she can really stop herself.

"Jeremy," Miles says, in his Terribly Reasonable Voice, "if you don't make toast, _Bass_ will make toast. This is a nice house, Jeremy. I don't want it to burn down. I will be very _upset_ if it burns down."

Jeremy rolls over and glares at Miles. "I look like a panda, Miles. Do you really think toast is high up on my agenda?"

Bass gets up and grabs Jeremy by the collar. "Come with me if you want to live."

"I don't!" Jeremy protests, even as Bass pulls him kicking and complaining into the kitchen.

***

It's mid-afternoon, and the first training session is in full-swing. In the side-garden of the house, a group of seven townspeople are learning some hand-to-hand defensive techniques with Miles and Bass whilst, in the front garden, Jeremy and Ollie are demonstrating some fieldcraft tips to another five (whilst trying not to complain about their lingering hangovers too much.)

It's a pleasant day. The sun overhead is warm – summer is definitely on its way in – and the sessions are going well. Hopefully after today the word will spread, and tomorrow… more will come.

Though it's possible the word is already spreading. There were only eight here this morning, but they've picked up four more over the course of the day. And at the wall of the garden, a couple of other people are watching, seemingly torn as to whether to join in or not.

"Better," Bass tells the lanky teenager who blocked the first few blows, "but you need to remember my feet as well." He demonstrates with a swipe that knocks against his boot, but doesn't send him flying. "Either stay well back, or be grounded and close enough that you'll take them down too."

"Gotcha," says the kid, springing back out of range.

Bass goes in again, and this time the teen is braced. When his leg comes sweeping around, the boy grabs him and they both barrel to the floor and roll a few times, until they come to a halt by the fence. Bass lets the kid end up on top to make sure he doesn't get too discouraged, but then finds himself peering up at a young red-headed boy with shocking green eyes.

"You let him win," the young boy says accusingly. "I saw it."

"I didn't," Bass tells the boy. "I let him wind up on top. That's not the same."

"My dad says you should always make like it's real, 'cause when it's real people ain't nice."

"Your dad's right," Bass replies, somewhat confused why he's discussing training techniques with a brat.

The teen climbs off him and dusts himself down. "It felt real enough, Stevie."

Leaving the pair he's been working with to practice blocking techniques with each other, Miles wanders over, having spotted what's going on.

"I see you made a friend," he says to Bass, with a little grin.

Bass throws Miles a slightly exasperated look. "Seems like."

"I'm Stevie! I mean… I'm Steven Faber," the red-head introduces himself, leaning over the small fence and offering a grubby hand out.

Bass fights the urge to roll his eyes and takes it. "I'm Bass Monroe, and this is Miles Matheson," he replies.

"You two should fight. Like. Properly. And then they can all see how good you are," Stevie suggests. "It would be cool."

"…Maybe later," Miles says, automatically. Probably wise that he and Bass _don't_ start sparring, because when they do it has a tendency to… degenerate. Into things they don't want to be doing in public.

To distract himself from thinking about said things, he gives the kid a quizzical look. "Where's your mom and dad?"

"Mom is busy doing boring laundry, and Dad was hunting food. He's really good. He could probably kick both your asses. He's like – the coolest fighter ever." Stevie throws mock-punches with his hands, balancing precariously on the fence with his feet.

"Well I'm glad your dad is a good fighter," Bass says. "Maybe he'll join us in helping other people learn?"

"Stevie!" comes a voice from a little way off. "Get down from there!"

A man approaches from the road, giving Miles and Bass a slightly suspicious look. He's of average height, at least a few years older than them, with short, brown hair and broad soldiers. And though he's dressed in non-descript clothing, something about him catches Miles' attention all at once. Whoever the guy is… he carries himself like a soldier.

"I hope my son wasn't causing you any trouble," the newcomer says.

"Not at all," Miles answers. "We were just talking." He holds out a hand. "I'm Miles Matheson," and, tilting his head towards Bass, he adds, "and this is Bass Monroe."

Stevie's father seems to hesitate a moment, then shakes Miles' hand, never once looking away from his eyes. "John Faber," he says.

"Dad! Dad! Tell them you could beat them up! Tell them you could!" Stevie bounces on the fence so hard he nearly falls off.

Bass puts a hand on his head to calm the bouncing. "Whoa… you're gonna do yourself an injury, little guy."

"I am not little! I am seven and a _half_."

"John – your son was just watching and telling us not to hold back. Sounds like you've been giving him some lessons?" Bass asks, ignoring how the kid is now glowering at him in outrage at being called 'little'.

John reaches out to pick his son up before he _does_ do himself an injury, hoisting the lad up onto his hip with ease and holding him. "Yes you are, young man," he says. "But what have we said about telling people I could beat them up?"

Stevie blushes. "But Dad! You totally could! You could totally win! I know you're cool!"

Bass is suddenly very glad he and Miles are not going to have children. Ever. Although he doesn't remember Ben and Rachel's eldest being like this when they last saw her, he suspects if they had children they would be like Stevie and not Charlie. "It's okay, we're not offended," Bass tells John. "In fact, we really would appreciate it if you joined in. We're going around trying to up the survival skill levels. We've seen some… horror stories on our travels and we figured the more people know how to defend themselves, the better."

In fact… Bass narrows his eyes and tilts his head. "You a Marine, too?" he guesses. The man sure has the bearings. The same… confidence and stance.

"Navy SEAL," John answers. "A Commander. Did my fair share of overseas deployments but I stopped a few years back. I was serving as an instructor at Heslar base in Indianapolis when the Blackout hit."

He gives the two of them a little headtilt of his own. "So, you boys are Marines, then. Had you figured for military men of some kind."

"Yeah," Miles answers. "Sergeants. You were at Heslar? We were stationed there a few years back, though we were at Parris Island when the Blackout hit."

Faber's eyebrows go up. "Parris Island? You walked here from South Carolina?"

"We did," Miles replies. "We're heading to Chicago. To find my brother."

"Well," Faber says, "you're tenacious, I'll give you that. But I'm not sure what all this training stuff is in aid of."

"You heard of a guy called Franklin?" Bass asks, noticing how the crowd draws a little closer to listen to the exchange.

Faber is aware of the crowd, too. Very, very aware. "No," he says, far too quickly. "Sometimes, it's better to keep a low profile. So… I'll leave you boys to it. Come along, Stevie…"

And, keeping his son held on his hip – so he can't protest and try to run off – Faber gives them both a careful nod and turns, setting out in the direction he came from.

"…Wait," Miles calls after him, realising something is going on, but Faber doesn't stop.

Bass considers running after him, but… no. Not in front of people he knows. He can feel the heat of the small crowd's gaze on the back of his neck. Can feel how they're all looking to them for answers. So he reaches out to glance fingers over Miles' elbow.

"We're doing it because we want you guys to all survive," he tells the people, turning back to face them. "Because we've seen enough death. And we don't want to see any more."

"Absolutely," Miles agrees. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That's what my Dad always used to say."

"Hear, hear," says one of the women in the crowd.

"Let's get back to it," Miles says.

…Goddamn SEALs. But he knows he can't dwell on that now.

***

That evening, after they've eaten, the four sit in the living room of their house. There's a general consensus that going out tonight would be unwise – even Miles seems to have agreed with this – although given how sullen both Miles and Bass now seem, Ollie can't help wondering if a distraction would be sensible.

"Who the fuck does that guy think he is, anyway?" Miles says.

"Did he say… why he wouldn't stay?" Jeremy queries. "I mean, did you ask him?"

"We didn't have a chance," Bass snaps. "He was already walking off. Fucking SEALs. They're all the same. Them and Delta. They think they own the fucking planet."

"Too right," Miles agrees. "And I swear to fuck that man knows something about Franklin. He couldn't run off quick enough the moment you mentioned his name."

"Maybe he's just being careful," Ollie reasons. "He does have a young son, after all."

"Yeah," Miles replies, "but there's careful, and then there's being _Commander_ high-and-mighty when all we're trying to do is _help_ people."

"Uhm. Maybe you could talk to him in private when his son isn't around?" Jeremy asks. "He might not want his kid to hear what's happening."

"No point," Bass says. "Like Miles said. He's a _Commander_ and a _SEAL_ and he won't want to talk to lowly non-comms like us. Not when he sat in the other Mess Hall. I bet he went straight into officer training and never worked the front line. Bet his parents bought him a one-way ticket to privilege."

"…Whoa, OK, there's clearly some issues, here," Ollie says, holding up her hands. "But surely you can get past that? I mean… the Blackout changed everything. And if you want to build this… militia… surely having a former SEAL on your side would be good?"

"Well, _technically_ , yes," Miles concedes, still looking sullen. "But he didn't want anything to do with us."

"It's not as simple as that," Bass says, throwing and catching a baseball he found earlier in the day. "If he wanted to help… it would be good. But it's… he blew us off, Ollie. And he refused to even talk to us. And he won't, either. Because officers are all the same."

"Like Twilight fans versus Harry Potter fans?" Jeremy asks. "Geez. You have to try, Bass. Talk to him in private. Tell him what we've seen. He can't expect to hide in his house forever."

Bass narrows his eyes at Jeremy. "You did not just say that."

…oh fuck. Miles looks at Jeremy and shakes his head, when Bass isn't looking his way. He's warned Jeremy – and Ollie more recently – about not mentioning Harry Potter in front of Bass, but clearly the man isn't thinking.

Jeremy catches the look from Miles but it's much, much too late. "Shit."

"I don't know what's worse," Bass says. "The fact that you compared us to that gay sparkly vampire shit, or… or… fucking hell, Jeremy. If you'd been a Marine you would understand. But you weren't. And thanks so very fucking much for turning my career and nearly dying for my country into some stupid shit for teenage girls and guys in their parents' basements."

Bass is aware he's being a bitch, but… it really fucking hurts to remember. So he gets up and walks out of the living room before he hits anyone.

"Bass! Bass, I'm sorry! It was a bad joke… Bass?" Jeremy looks frantically at Miles. "Sh…should I go after him?"

_Fuck_.

"No," Miles says, getting up at once. "Leave it to me." He doesn't look angry – isn't angry – but there's a certain amount of resignation in his tone. "And try to be more careful next time."

He heads out after Bass, knowing he needs to stage a quick intervention before this gets out of hand.

Bass goes into the kitchen and he just keeps going. Goes through the back door into the walled in garden. Walks up to the nearest tree and punches it.

The horses are there. Tethered up with Lamborghini on one flank, and Ferrari on the other with the other three between. Lambo whickers at him and Bass glares at her. "Don't you fucking judge me," Bass says accusingly. "You weren't there. So shut up."

His horse looks at him – snorts – and goes back to resting her head over Prius' neck.

Bass sighs and turns. Slides down the tree and drops to the ground. He can see Miles has followed him out, but he doesn't want to look at him either. So he looks at his hands instead.

" _Bass_ ," Miles says, urgently, as he hurries across the lawn to him. "Bass, it's all right."

It's dark, and all they have is moonlight. Starlight. The ripple of the breeze on the grass and the coolness of the night air.

Fuck, it's so familiar.

Without waiting for an invitation, Miles drops down beside Bass and grabs him, pulling him in tight and just holding him.

Bass resists just for a moment. Just for a moment, because the anger and the hurt and the loss is raging through him as if it was yesterday. As if there was no time between now and then. As if it all collapsed down and…

Then he lets out a shuddery breath and leans into Miles. Much like he had then. A gun and a bottle and a phone and unmarked graves. The night he lost everything he had… except for Miles. The night his old life ended, and his new one began.

"I shouldn't have shouted at Jeremy," Bass says, resting his head on Miles' shoulder. "It… I… he just caught me by surprise. I guess… I guess I'm still not over it. I… I don't know if I want to be."

Miles just holds him tight, stroking a hand over his shoulder. "I know," he says. "I know. It's OK, I've got you."

He fucked this up, the first time around. Fucked it up badly. Miles knows that. But… things are better now. In the dark, in a world gone mad… things are better. What that says about him, he's not sure.

"Sometimes… sometimes… I don't even remember they exist. I mean. I go whole days and they aren't there. Not in my thoughts. And… and I worry that it will get longer and longer between me remembering them… and one day I won't remember them at all." Bass' foot scratches at the floor, distractedly. "I don't want to forget them, Miles. I don't want to forget my family. But it hurts when I do." A little, bitter laugh. "How fucked up is that?"

"It isn't fucked up," Miles replies. "It's normal. It's grief. And time… time stretches it out, but it doesn't make it go away. Not really."

He pulls Bass in tighter, against his chest. "And you won't forget them," he goes on. "I promise you that. You never forget the people who mattered."

"Bits are already gone," Bass admits. "I remember what they looked like. I remember holding them when they were born. But their voices are fading and I don't remember how they used to smell. I…" It chokes him up. Makes his chest hurt. "Fuck. Fuck. I want to stop remembering them right now, but I worry if I keep doing that, then… Miles… Miles what the fuck do I do?"

Miles pushes a hand against Bass' chest, over his heart. "They're here, Bass," he whispers. "They'll always be here. And… I know some of it starts to fade. It does. That's the nature of loss. But the things that mattered the most… who they were, what they loved, how they loved… those things will always be a part of you."

Silently, Bass cries. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. Hurts even more because he remembers that night, too. Remembers the cry for help. Remembers how the world was completely empty, and remembers…

"I love you," he blurts out, trying not to sound wrecked and failing miserably. "I fucking love you, man. I'd be… I'd be lying there right next to them without you. I would, Miles. I would. I… I don't… I don't think I ever said it properly but… fuck." He pushes fully into his arms, and cries against his chest. Cries all the tears he had forced himself not to cry that night. Cries all the rage and anguish and longing. And fuck anyone who overhears. Fuck them all.

He misses them. He misses them so goddamn much. And now there's no stupid macho Marine shit stopping him from letting Miles know just how goddamn much. "I miss them. I miss them so much."

"I know," Miles whispers, just holding him, letting the emotion come. Letting himself be there in all the ways he'd failed to be, that awful night. "I know. I love you too. And… I promise you, they would be so fucking proud of you if they could see you now. If they could see the good you're doing. The good you've already done. If they could see… how fucking happy you make me."

Bass pulls back just enough to stare up at him. His face a watery mess. "You… think so?" he asks, wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. "I mean… you… you do?"

"Of course I do," Miles answers. "Look at you. Look at us. We're so fucking happy together I still can't quite believe it. And despite the utter mess the world has descended into, we're still trying to make a difference. To do good. To make life safer for everyone because we're Marines, Bass, and that's what we do. We fight for the people. And we're still doing that, even after the end of the fucking world. Damn right they'd be proud of you."

"I always thought they were just sick of my…" Bass shrugs. "Thought I was too much of a… me. For them. I… wasn't the easiest son to have. Compared to those angels, I was practically adopted." But he's smiling a little. Just a little.

"Bass," Miles says, gently. It's amazing how much he can put into one soft utterance of the other man's name. "You were – _are_ – a United States Marine. You went overseas four times to fight for this country. You risked your life for it on a constant basis for months at a time. And we both know you being… something of a handful… could never overrule that."

That gets a snort. "Well what the fuck else was I any good for? It's not like I was book smart. But… I guess you're right. I guess I could have done a lot worse." He grabs Miles' knee and squeezes it hard. "But I didn't. And… I got you. So." His smile falters. "I just wish I could see them one last time and tell them I finally figured myself out. You know?"

"Yeah, I know," Miles answers. "I know." He holds Bass tighter again, solely to hold him, solely for the contact. "But yeah, you got me. And you'll always have me. So… it's OK."

"Maybe one day… we could go back? To Jasper. Just… just… so I can tell them? It's… not quite the same but… I think it might help."

Back. It's a long time since Miles has been back there. But… he nods. "Yes," he agrees. "We should. Both of us."

"We… should probably go back in. I probably owe Jeremy an apology. Even if he did call us dumb vampire shit." Bass doesn't want to dwell on this anymore. Not… now. It hurts, still. But it doesn't hurt in quite the same way. He pushes up to his feet and offers Miles his hand. "Come on."

Miles takes his hand and scrambles up. "Yeah. Maybe let's not mention the dumb vampire shit again, either. Sparkles wouldn't suit you."

Bass cracks him around the ear. "Shut up. You didn't have to grow up with fairy princess shit. At least you had a brother. Even if he was a fucking bookworm. 'Bass, be nice, don't ruin the tea party'. 'Bass, stop hiding the fairy wings'. 'Bass quit hanging your sister upside down to find out where the lost treasure of Atlantis is…'."

"True," Miles concedes. "Though I did have to contend with Ben trying to _teach_ me things, and that was a challenge all of its own." He grins just a little. "No wonder you and I spent so long charging around the countryside…"

Bass wraps an arm around Miles' waist and pulls him in tight. "I sometimes wonder why he still talks to you," he jokes.

And then they're back in and Bass hesitates just a little. But then he steels himself and does one last check to make sure it's not… too obvious how much he's been crying. When they get back in, Ollie and Jeremy are in the middle of some quiet conversation but they look up when they hear the other two walk through.

"Call me a fucking gay vampire again, Jeremy, and I will tell everyone we meet about your love of eyeliner," Bass tells him. "Deal?"

Okay it isn't really an apology, but… he's trying.

Jeremy looks pale but he nods. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Don't sweat it," Bass says and drops back onto the couch. "But I'm not lying. No one will take you seriously. So just remember that. Marines can be bastards to you when you fall asleep…"

"They really can," Miles confirms, slipping onto the couch beside Bass, wanting to keep up the contact between them.

"…I don't want to know, do I?" Ollie says.

"Absolutely not," Miles replies. "It's too much for young, impressionable minds."

"I promise, Bass. I really do." Jeremy puts his hand on his heart. "Even if the werewolves were better. I mean. Other than her dad."

"Jeremy!"

"Sorry! Okay! I'll stop now, I promise…"

"You are just fucking lucky I do not have a camera, Private Baker," Bass groans as he leans into Miles. "Now can we please talk about something else? Like… what the fuck are we gonna do when we leave?"

"…We keep going," Miles answers, before the conversation can veer back towards sparkly vampires. "We go to other towns and villages, meet people, offer them training. Build up quiet alliances that we can call on when the time comes."

"They need to keep in practice, though, or when we leave all the skills will just go to waste," Bass points out. "We could try to get them to meet up weekly or something… do you think?"

Jeremy realises now is the time not to join in.

"That would be sensible," Miles agrees. "We'll need to decide on someone to leave in charge, to keep them together, and we'll need to make sure they have somewhere to meet. Maybe they can keep using this house, if you can get your good friend the mayor to agree…"

Bass nods. "Even if someone ends up staying here, they could use the garden anyway. I'll ask him. You got an idea who you want to ask to run it?"

"I'm working on it," Miles answers. "There were a couple of people today who might be suitable, but I want to see how they do over the next few days."

"Aren't you worried that Franklin's people will see them as… a threat?" Jeremy asks.

"They could lie and say it's Tai Chi or something," Bass suggests. "Or yoga."

"…Well, they'll need to keep it subtle," Miles says, pointedly ignoring the comment about Tai Chi. "But we'll need to mark the dojos, so once word spreads, people will know how to find them."

"Won't it be kind of obvious with all the people hitting one another?" Bass asks. "…but we could still mark it I guess…"

"Maybe we need to find them somewhere else, then. Somewhere indoors. I'm sure the mayor could help with that too…"

Miles looks thoughtful for a moment, and then an idea comes to mind. "For the mark… what about our M?"

Bass jumps. "…our… M?" Our very, very private M? The one inked on my arm and carved into our skin? "…you think… that's a good plan?"

"It totally works," Jeremy jumps in. "It stands for both of you, and for 'militia.' It is simple and discreet."

"…all true," Bass agrees.

"It's… us," Miles says. "And we need something that no one else uses. Something that has no other connotations. Something… new."

"Yeah. Okay. I guess it makes sense." Bass nods. "Okay. We'll go with that. But what do you want to do with it? I mean… how should we use it?"

"Didn't Christians used to have to put little fish symbols on things?" Jeremy asks. "I think I read it once. You could carve it into fences, or paint it as graffiti. If you wanted to make it a bit more subtle you could include it in words so they didn't think it had any sinister connotation."

"We're not a religion!" Bass blurts out. "Dude that's just weird."

"It's a good idea, though," Ollie says. "If you want to keep it subtle… Sometimes the tried and tested methods work best."

"Very true," Miles agrees, even though he's not keen on the religious connotation either.

"All right," Bass relents. "I'll see the mayor in the morning, and I'll ask him for permission to step up a permanent training facility. Nothing overtly political. And Miles and I will work out who is the most promising person to leave in charge."

"You do realise it is still going to be the SEAL?" Jeremy tries.

"It isn't if he doesn't want it to be. And he doesn't. End of," Bass says. "So… are we all done for the night?"

"Yeah," Miles says, deciding it's best they don't go off on a tangent about Faber again. "Besides… it's been a long day and I'm tired…"

But he's glancing at the stairway down to the basement… and it doesn't look like he's thinking about sleep.

Again.

***

By the next morning, Ollie has come up with an idea, though she doesn't want to say what it is in case it doesn't work out. When they start up the day's training activities – with more people this time, because word has travelled – she asks Jeremy if he can handle their section on his own for a little while.

And off she goes. She makes a few enquiries, and by lunchtime she's managed to track down the house belonging to one Commander John Faber.

He isn't here. She's made sure of that, too. By all accounts he's gone out hunting again (maybe he uses it for stress relief) and isn't expected back until late afternoon.

Perfect.

Carefully, Ollie approaches the front door of the house and knocks.

A few moments later a woman with brilliant red hair answers the door. She's in her late thirties or early forties, and she has a small child pushing at her legs. "Hello?" she says, when she sees Ollie.

"Mrs Faber?" Ollie says, as politely as possible. She wants the woman to like her, after all. "I'm Ollie Fischer. Could I talk to you for a moment?"

"Ah, one of the new people? I'm Anita, honey. Would you like to come in?"

Stevie is bouncing quietly behind her.

"Would you go and draw a nice picture for Ollie? It would be a lovely gift."

"Okay Mom!" Stevie says, and bounds back into the house. "I'll use my best crayons."

Ollie grins a little at the cute child, and gives him a friendly wave.

"Yes, please," she says to Mrs Fa-… to Anita, and follows her inside.

"Would you like some tea?" Anita asks, as she guides Ollie into the living room. "We ran out of real tea a while back, but we've been experimenting with the plants we have here. It's cold but it's refreshing."

"Please," Ollie says. "I'd like that. We mostly just have water on the road."

Except when Miles finds Scotch. Though maybe don't mention that to the nice woman you want to like you.

"You make yourself at home and I will be right back," Anita tells her. She walks off and goes to prepare the drinks.

Whilst Anita is gone, Ollie wanders slowly around the living room. It's so… very, very normal that it's almost jarring after a month on the road, but welcome at the same time. Welcome to see the world holding onto some sense of normalcy amidst everything.

It's a nice house, immaculately-kept and elegant. The living room speaks volumes about its inhabitants, too – from the tidy box of toys in one corner, to the ornaments (minimal and tasteful) and, most notably, the photographs. It's these that Ollie lingers on the most, lined up along the mantelpiece, depicting the Faber family before the Blackout. There's one of John and Anita with Steven as a baby, and another of their son at the beach aged maybe two or three, grinning as he runs at a sandcastle with his spade. And then, of course, there's the pictures of John in uniform. Pictures of him with medals on his chest, with his wife at his side. Even one of him on deployment somewhere, in a large military tent of some kind, standing between two comrades with an arm around each.

When Anita comes back with her tray of glasses and large pitcher of home-brewed tea, she finds Ollie staring at the photographs and smiles. "He enjoyed serving abroad, until we had Stevie. Then he decided it wasn't right for us anymore, which I'm glad of." She pours out two glasses and holds one out to Ollie.

"Is one of the people you're travelling with your brother?" Anita goes on to ask. "The shorter one, perhaps? John said at least two of you were ex-military and… don't take this the wrong way but I am sure you were not one of them."

"Oh… no, no, we're just friends," Ollie replies, accepting the glass with a nod of thanks and taking a sip… and yes, it is surprisingly good. And neither water nor alcohol. She has some more. "I've been travelling with them for about a month. I… didn't have anyone else, and they're good people. But you're right, I'm not military."

"Military men are good people," Anita agrees. "Occasionally bull-headed, but their hearts are in the right place." She takes a seat on her armchair. "Now, are you going to tell me why you came to see me, young lady?"

Ollie is about to agree about the military men when Anita says _that_ , and she nearly jumps a mile. "Y-you… you know I'm a girl?" she whispers, going pale.

"Sweetheart, yes… I know. John might be a bit of an idiot about female things, but I'm the smart one in the relationship." She winks. "Do the men you are travelling with know?"

Shaking a little, Ollie drops down into one of the chairs. "I… uhm… one of them does. Jeremy. He's not a soldier either. The other two… Miles and Bass… I haven't told them yet. I don't know how. I… it's safer this way…"

Anita leans forward and puts a hand on Ollie's to stop it shaking. "Don't worry. Men are wilfully blind. And your secret is safe with me."

Ollie nods rather more than is necessary. "Thanks. I… Thank you."

She looks down, and has another sip of her drink. And decides she should say what she came to say. "I came here about your husband. He didn't want anything to do with Miles and Bass, but… but they need people like him. They're trying to make places like this stronger and they need good leaders to leave in charge when they move on. People like John."

"I see." Anita sits back in the chair. "Did my husband say why he wasn't prepared to get involved?"

"No," Ollie replies. "He didn't seem in favour of talking to them at all. Especially… well, I wasn't there, but Bass said it was as soon as he mentioned the name 'Franklin.' John just upped and left."

The woman goes a little pale at that. "Yes. Well. John's of the opinion that we need to hide from trouble as much as possible, not go looking for it. He knows people like him – and your friends – are high priority targets, and the more people who become high priority the worse he thinks it will be." But there's something in her tone that indicates she's not entirely convinced herself.

"And I get that," Ollie says. "Really, I do. But… I don't think hiding will be enough. I think people need to be prepared for what might be coming. And… people like your husband, or my friends… they're the ones who can make it happen. Who can protect places like this from… from men like Franklin."

Who you clearly know about. Which is worrying.

"Some people tried that already. It didn't go too well for them." Anita sighs, and puts her glass down on a coaster. "Do you think your boys are up for it? I mean… do they know what they're up _against_?"

"If anyone is, they are," Ollie answers. "They've seen what Franklin's people do, first-hand. They know… what the stakes are."

Her hands are shaking again. She has another sip of the tea to cover it.

Anita stares at her. Really stares. She looks all the way through her, to what's underneath. She doesn't flinch even slightly when she sees the pain and worry. She just takes it all on board… and then she nods.

"Okay. I believe you. I was never happy with John's decision, but there wasn't really a viable alternative until now. You get your fellers to the bar tonight – around seven – and I'll make sure John and I are there. It won't be easy to persuade him, but I'll argue your corner as well as I can. Does that sound fair?"

This is more than Ollie hoped for. A lot more. Her face lights up. "Yes," she says. "Yes, that sounds perfect. Thank you. I'll make sure they're there."

It probably won't be hard. Mentioning alcohol to Miles is usually enough. And wherever he goes, Bass will go.

"Okay. That settles it. But… is there anything you need, Ollie? You, I mean. Not your friends. It must be hard on you running around with them, pretending to fit in."

Ollie looks down. The kindness is… unfamiliar to her. Not that the others are unkind, because they aren't, but this… this is different.

"It's hard," she admits, softly. "But they saved my life. They keep me safe. I don't know what I would have done without them."

"One day, you will have to tell them," Anita points out. "Because they deserve to know and you deserve to live freely. But you will know when it's the time to do that. And I think they will surprise you with how they react. If they're anything like my John, anyway."

"MOM! MOM! I DID IT! I DID IT!"

Stevie bolts down the stairs but his voice arrives long before he does. He bounces in the doorway on bare feet, waving his picture around. "Can I give the boy my picture? Can I Mom? Can I?"

Ollie grins at the welcome interruption, though she's still giving Anita a very grateful look as Stevie bursts in.

"What did you draw?" she asks.

"THIS!" he says, and shoves the piece of paper out at him.

"Look… see this is you and your friends and your horses and you are going for a ride in the park. And THEN you can see there is some bad pirates who have come to hit you." He points at some stick figures with swords, hats, eyepatches and a parrot. "And now you are fighting them back and here my dad comes to save you and you all win…" He taps at the pile of blood and bits of boots and swords. Then he flips it over. "And you all go for icecream! My favourite is chocolate. What's yours?"

Ollie stares. It's a very… special picture. "Strawberry," she answers. "With lots and lots of sauce. And a chocolate wafer. I love your picture. Your dad must be your hero."

"Cool!" he says and drops to the floor to fill in the details of Ollie's icecream on his picture. "Yeah, he is. He's really strong and tough and he fights all the bad guys and he keeps people safe. But he says I am not supposed to tell people. Like maybe if he was Clark Kent. But he's so cool I have to anyway, he's cooler than Superman AND Batman."

The picture finished, he holds it out to Ollie. "It's for you," he adds, shyly. "I hope you like it."

"I do like it," Ollie tells him, smiling. "I like it a lot. No one ever drew me a picture before." She takes it, looking over it again with a little grin, before folding it carefully and tucking it into her pocket.

"I should be heading off," she says to Anita. "Thank you so much again. I'll see you tonight."

"Yey!" Stevie says, and grabs Ollie's legs to hug him. "You think of me and my mom and my dad when you look at it," he says, then bounds over to leap into his mother's lap.

"Calm down," Anita tells him, stroking a hand over his head. "You know you get too excited when we have guests."

Stevie nods, but still grins up at Ollie.

"We'll see you tonight. And if you want to get John in a good mood… I suggest you ask for the bourbon. He likes that best of all the things they've managed to brew so far."

Ollie nods. "I'll remember that," she says. And it's good advice, though she has to not think about alcohol in general so much, due to… reasons.

And as she heads out, she feels a little better about everything. If this plan works… maybe things will start to look up.

***

Convincing Miles and Bass to go out to the bar again that evening is not exactly difficult. Convincing Jeremy is rather more challenging, but after some cajoling he agrees, and so the four of them head out once they've eaten.

When they arrive, the Fabers are already there, at a table near the bar itself. John's eyebrows go up when he sees them, and he glances suspiciously at his wife. Miles looks similarly suspicious, and gives Ollie an odd stare.

"You're welcome," she says, with a grin. "Now go play nice."

"You are so dead," Jeremy leans in and whispers in Ollie's ear. "So, so dead."

Bass stops still for a minute. Shit. But… they want this to work. They do. And even if the guy is a total douchebag… he's the best they've got so far. "Come on," he says lowly to Miles. "Let's see if he's prepared to talk to us."

Miles grips Bass' arm for a moment, then nods. "All right."

They move closer to the table. "Can we join you?" Miles asks, trying to be polite. Which he can so do, if he concentrates.

John doesn't answer. He is still looking suspiciously at his wife.

"Please," she says, waving at two chairs which are close by and empty. Deliberately. "I'm Anita Faber, and I think you met my husband John?"

"We did," Bass says. "Bass Monroe and Miles Matheson, ma'am. It's nice to meet you."

Ollie grabs Jeremy's hand. "Let's leave them to it," she whispers. If nothing else, she wants to find a nice, dark corner to hide in before someone recognises either of them.

Although… one thing first. She goes up to the bar, avoiding the barman's eye as much as possible, and orders a bottle of the Bourbon. As Miles and Bass are moving to sit down, she puts the bottle in Miles' hand.

"You'll need this," she says. "Good luck."

And retreats to the dark corner where Jeremy is waiting for her.

Never one to turn down alcohol, Miles takes the bottle with a nod and then sits. "Good to meet you," he echoes, looking at the Fabers. "I assume you've heard about what we're doing here?"

"Everyone has," John says, before his wife can speak. "But I still don't like the sound of it."

"Why don't you tell us why you're doing it?" Anita suggests calmly.

"Franklin," is Bass' response. "The man is destroying places like this. Burning them down. Doing… horrible things to the women and children. And we've had enough."

"More than enough," Miles agrees. "We've seen it, up close and personal. And I for one won't just sit and let him get on with it. It's wrong. It's _sick_."

"I don't disagree," John says. "But sometimes you have to look at what matters most. Protect the things closest to you."

Bass slams his hand down onto the table. "How is doing nothing going to protect your wife? How is a town full of people afraid going to help? They will knock on every door, take every woman… and when they come to your house? You will be the only one left holding a gun and it won't be enough to stop him."

Which makes Anita jump. "John… John… listen to them, please. We had friends in the last place Franklin hit. You know what happened to them. Do you really think sitting and doing nothing will make us any more safe?"

John looks down, toying with the edge of his glass in obvious agitation. "Yes," he says, firmly, though there's not a lot of conviction in his tone. "Militarising, drawing attention to ourselves… that's what will get us into trouble. That's what will _make_ them come."

"No," Miles says, and there's an oddly haunted look in his eye all of a sudden. Memories of the nameless village filtering painfully back. "What will make them come is the fact that they can. Sooner or later, no matter what you do… they will come. You might delay it by keeping your head down. But then again… you might invite it."

"And if you're not ready, you're fucked," Bass adds. He glances over at John's wife. "Sorry, but… it's true. Eventually they will come anyway, and they will be stronger and you will be weaker, and they will take whatever they want because that's all they will do until someone stops them."

Anita waves a hand at them. "It's all right. I've heard worse."

"And how are you going to stop them?" John asks, flatly. "How is teaching a bunch of civilians a little bit of hand-to-hand combat going to somehow make them able to repel an attack by Franklin's people? _Really_?"

Miles… wonders if he should explain the rest. He isn't exactly sold on this guy, SEAL or no, and his attitude doesn't help. But… no. Maybe it's time to put their cards on the table. Just this once.

"Because this is just the first step," he says. "We make contacts. We spread our skills. And when we've done enough… we pull it all together, and suddenly we don't have pockets of people all over the place. We have a militia."

Bass winces. When you say it like that…

"Someone has to," he says instead. "Someone has to do something. Because if soldiers like you and us do nothing… what hope do the people we signed up to protect really have? No one else will teach them how to survive. No one else will keep them safe. We are all they have, John. We're the thin line. The wedge. Whatever. We're what's left."

John sighs, and downs what's left of his drink. Miles waves the bottle at him, offering, and John simply nods, letting Miles pour him another.

"I like you boys," he says, perhaps begrudging the admission just a little. "Don't get me wrong. Your hearts are in the right place. I just… don't think you've thought this through."

"We've not run a militia before," Bass admits, "but we just got started. We'll work it out. And the more people like you with experience who help us… the better we'll get."

"John," Anita says, putting a hand on his arm. "They're more co-ordinated than anyone else we've seen passing through. Give them a chance."

John sighs again. He's starting to feel like the Only Sane Man, although in a world gone _in_ sane, maybe that's not necessarily the best thing to be.

He has another mouthful of the Bourbon. It's good Bourbon. It helps.

"Look," he says. "I mean what I've said. But I guess… if you're wanting people to keep training here after you've gone… I guess I could look in on them every once in a while. If it's happening regardless… I might as well."

"Great," Bass says with a wavering smile. "That's all we ask, right Miles?"

"Right," Miles agrees. "If you want to come by someday and join us when we're training… you're welcome to."

"I'll think about it," John answers, a little gruffly.

"Well, that settles it," Anita says, beaming at them both. "Now why don't you tell me about how you two met, and where you picked up your two friends?"

Bass snorts. Where the hell do you start with this? "Well, ma'am, Miles and I are both from this little place in Indiana…"

***

It's another full week before Miles finally says it's time they prepared to move on. It's been a good week, with almost thirty people training with them in the end, and Miles is sorry, in a way, that they have to leave.

But they do. With a little help from the mayor, they've got themselves a proper dojo to leave behind – marked, as planned with the Monroe-Matheson M – and most of their thirty trainees are planning to keep meeting up after they've gone.

A success, all in all.

As their final evening starts to set in, the four are still hanging around in the garden of their house, watching as the last of their trainees heads off home.

"It's kind of like… graduating," Jeremy says as they go. "Except… like we're the teachers, not the students. It's… weird."

"I remember graduating being a lot happier than this," Bass points out. "I couldn't wait to get gone."

"Me too," Miles agrees. "Way more fun to be had elsewhere." But from the look in his eyes, he's glad they're taking it more seriously this time.

"Before you guys head out," calls Anita from a little way down the road. "John would like to see you, Bass and Miles. And Stevie here would like to say goodbye to Ollie."

"But why are they going, Mom? Why can't they stay?" Stevie buries his head in his mother's shoulder and refuses to look at them.

"Sounds like our cue to leave," Bass says. He grabs the fence with both hands and vaults over it. "You take care of him, Anita. When we come back I fully expect him to have grown a foot."

"They do that," Miles says, wryly. He glances at Jeremy and Ollie. "Hold the fort, we'll be back."

He and Bass make their way over to the Fabers' house, knocking at the door. John answers almost at once – he's clearly been waiting for them – and waves them inside.

"Look," he says. "I wanted to see you before you head off tomorrow. Whatever else I've said… you're good people and I respect your motivation, even if sometimes I question your methods. And… I've got something for you."

"Thanks," Bass replies, even though he's wondering what the hell the man could give them. Frankly any gift is wonderful in this fucked-up world. "And for what it's worth, any help you give to the dojo will be better than anyone we could ever train up. Right, Miles?"

"Right," Miles agrees. "Any help you can give them will make a real difference."

"Well… we'll see about that," John says, carefully. "In the meantime…"

He gestures to the table, where he's got something hidden under a large piece of military-style canvas. "I told you I was stationed at Heslar when the Blackout hit," he says. "I was actually in the base at the time. Stayed for nearly three days before I realised the lights weren't coming back on and I had to get home. But before I left, I… picked up a few things. Two of which I'd like to give to you."

And he pulls back the canvas to reveal what's underneath – a pair of sniper rifles. More specifically, a pair of M39 Enhanced Marksman Rifles, along with a good stock of ammo.

"Thought you boys might get some use out of these. More than I have, so far."

Bass can't help himself. He sees the guns and goes right over to them with something like awe on his face. He dances from foot to foot and his hands itch to touch them. God, they are pretty.

"Can… can I?" he asks, fingers hovering over them but looking for permission first, like a kid in a sweet shop. "They're beautiful, John. Beautiful."

Miles grins. Bass is so delicious when he's perving over weaponry. He tries to look sensible and manly about it but it isn't easy when your boyfriend has that expression on his face.

"Aren't they just?" John says. "A bit too much overkill for game hunting, but if you're doing what you're doing… well. Let's just say the world would be a better place if you were pointing these at Franklin."

That's all the permission he needs. Bass picks up the thing of beauty and does the necessary checks without even thinking about it. Safety, magazine, chamber. And when he's sure it's safe, he hefts it properly and points it (avoiding the barrel pointing at _anyone_ ) out the window to look through the sights. "God, but I could do some damage with this baby. Oh, I bet you have a really nice recoil, don't you?"

He doesn't care if the other two men are judging him. He's in love. He's in love and her name is M39. Hopefully his other girl (Lamborghini) won't mind. "I bet you fuck shit up really nicely," he coos at the rifle. "I can't wait to sort your sights out."

"…This is normal for him," Miles reassures John, carefully. "He's not crazy. He just has a tendency to talk to guns."

Yes, but to normal people, that _is_ crazy, Miles, his mind reminds him. But as ever, he ignores it.

"…So I see," John answers, tone still careful. "Well. Glad to have made your day a little brighter."

Bass pulls the rifle in to his chest. "Yes." He nods. "Yes. Really…" He realises he's sort of forgotten how to talk like a normal person, because he's been too obsessed over the lovely matching pieces of death. So he tries to drag his mind away from where it's skipping through fields and shooting people dead.

"They're really nice and I will only use them to kill bad people."

Fuck. That didn't sound much better, either. He reluctantly puts the rifle next to its twin and starts to wrap them back up. No point wandering around with them on display.

"Please do," John says, and you could be forgiven for thinking he's trying to stifle a grin. "And… you boys are doing the Corps proud. Even if you are also fucking nuts."

"…I'll take that as a compliment," Miles answers.

"You have to be nuts to be a Marine. Or a SEAL," Bass answers, smoothly. "And when you see us next, maybe I'll have shot his brains out with one of these. And if I have, I'll buy you a whole fucking bar."

"I will hold you to that," is all John says to this.

They say their goodbyes and head on back to the house in the fading light. Miles lets Bass carry the rifles, not entirely sure how the man would react to not being allowed to hold them all the way.

When they get back, Ollie and Jeremy are still in the garden, with Anita and Stevie. And, it seems, Audi.

"It seems a shame to break them up," Bass points out. "They made a new friend."

He nods to the four of them. Ollie and Anita are leaning against the fence talking, while Jeremy has hold of Stevie and is keeping him in place on Audi as he trots the young horse back and forth. "God I hope he's not broody. Although maybe Ben and Rachel just found their babysitter?"

"Maybe they have," Miles agrees, with a laugh. "He is the sensible one, though. You know, in comparison. I can just see it now… 'Hi Ben, we finally found you, so glad you're OK, and oh look, I brought you a giant babysitter. He's a nerd too, I'm sure you'll be firm friends…'"

Bass whacks Miles on the arm. "Ben will love it. We took most of a year to get to him, we bring home two nerds, five horses, two sniper rifles and we started a war. But don't worry, you can have date nights now, because this dude we saved is totally better with kids than us and we're too busy fucking, but it's good to see you. Where's the lube?"

"…In the grand scheme of things, he'll probably be relieved it wasn't anything worse," Miles points out. "This is us we're talking about. Ben knows what we're like."

He heads over to Jeremy. "I see you made a friend."

"Miles!" Stevie calls out. "Look, Jememy showed me how to ride a horse!"

Jeremy shakes his head. "Jeremy, Stevie. There's an 'R' in there." He keeps hold of the kid but turns to the two. "You come bearing gifts?"

"We do indeed," says Miles, with a grin. "Apparently Stevie's dad likes us really."

"My dad is so cool," Stevie says, forgetting to stay still and turning to talk to them. Jeremy has to lift him up and off and down. "He is really cool. But you are kind of cool too." Before anyone can stop him, he's launched himself at Miles' leg.

Bass laughs. "I guess he's not the only one who likes us."

"I'mma miss youse," Stevie says, from somewhere in Miles' hip.

A little taken aback, Miles ruffles the kid's hair. "We'll miss you too, Stevie. You be good for your dad, and look after your mom."

Then he looks at Jeremy, in a save-me sort of way.

"I will! I will. Mom's cool too. She just doesn't shoot people." Stevie grins.

Anita thankfully walks over and plucks her son from Miles' leg. "No, but she's much more dangerous than Daddy, isn't she?"

Stevie nods, and grabs his mother for a hug. "Do they have to go? Really? Can't they stay for good?"

Bass shakes his head. "Sorry, Stevie. We've got to see if there's other kids to help. After all, not everyone has someone as cool as your dad living in their town."

"Okay," Stevie says reluctantly. "I guess that's all right."

"But we'd like to come back one day," Miles adds, happier now the scarily adorable child has been removed from him.

"Yeah," Ollie agrees, having come over with Anita. "It's nice here."

It really is. And it will be hard to leave. But she knows why they have to.

"We'll look forward to seeing you," Anita tells them. "It's been lovely meeting you, and now I'm sure Stevie will complain until his dad gets him a pony."

"PONY!"

Anita laughs and puts her hand over his mouth whilst he carries on babbling happily.

"So I assume you have a lot of packing to do, and I won't keep you. Besides, it's almost someone's bedtime."

"As soon as we're back, we'll call by, Mrs Faber," Jeremy tells her.

"Anita, please, Jeremy."

"Okay… Anita."

"And we mean it about coming back," Miles tells her. "So… you keep working on that husband of yours. We'll make a believer of him yet."

Ollie, meanwhile, wants to give Anita a hug but realises this might look a bit weird in front of Miles and Bass. So she settles for saying, "Thanks for everything. Really."

You made me feel normal again. And that's special.

"You're welcome. You take care of these boys," she says to Ollie. "Because you're the smart one. Don't you forget that. These soldier types need smart ones like us. Now… I better get him home. You all ride safely."

Stevie yells a muffled goodbye, and waves even as he's picked up and clinging to her like a monkey.

Bass shakes his head at her as she goes. "She's right, Ollie. Me and Miles would have been too… proud to get him to talk. You did that."

Ollie blushes a little. "I just… looked for a different way in. And I knew the whole Marine-SEAL thing was an issue so… I went around it."

She grins, then gives a self-deprecating wave. "See, I told you there was a reason you brought me along."

"Plenty of reasons," Bass says and leans over to mess Ollie's hair up. "For one, someone has to keep Jeremy from going insane."

"Hey, that's not fair, Bass!"

"No, I think you went nuts a long time ago. Anyway… let's go inside so I can show you my new babies," Bass adds.

"…Is this going to get weird?" Ollie says, dubiously.

"Yep," Miles answers. "Very."

***

Eventually, Miles makes the case that they really ought to sleep, especially as he wants to set out reasonably early in the morning. Ollie and Jeremy both seem in favour of this and head off to their rooms, leaving Miles, Bass, and two very impressive guns.

"Come along, you," Miles says, grabbing Bass' hand and dragging him away, over towards the stairs leading down. "If I have to watch you stare lovingly at those rifles for much longer, I'm going to get jealous."

"We could bring them, too," Bass suggests. "It's a big bed. There's one each. We could cuddle them."

"Bass. We are not bringing the sniper rifles to bed," Miles replies, flatly. "Now get your delicious ass down those stairs before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you."

"You couldn't," Bass retorts. "I'm too tall. How about if we stand them against the wall so they can watch?"

Miles yanks Bass' arm up behind his back, all of a sudden. "No. Because I am not in a sharing mood."

That makes Bass yelp in pain and start walking. "Fuck… but… but they're good girls," he says, pleadingly. Even though he knows he's losing the fight. "And you could totally tell them that I'm all yours while you fuck me and make them stare…"

"You _are_ all mine," Miles points out, a soft growl in his ear. "Maybe you need reminding of that."

And without waiting for agreement, he starts walking Bass towards the stairs, arm still held behind his back.

"It won't hurt to remind me," Bass agrees. "I mean. Just in case I've forgotten how good it feels when you bend me over and make me scream your name. Because… I might have. Since last time… I might have forgotten how much I love your dick in my ass. What does it feel like again?"

Miles marches him down the stairs, slamming the door behind them, and not stopping until they're at the bed… no. Not the bed. This needs to be… rougher. There's a desk at the far end of the room; heavy-set wood, wide and empty. Perfect. Haven't used that yet. He pushes Bass over towards it – knowing the change of direction from the bed will wrong-foot him a little – and slams him down over the dark wood.

"Then I'd better remind you," he growls.

Bass is all ready and geared up to land on the bed, so when Miles changes things around he squawks in protest, because… bed! Bed. Bed is good. And soft. And just right for fucking on. And when Miles pushes him down over the desk instead, it makes his head spin and his dick leap. Fuck. Oh fuck yes. He lets out a low moan of pleasure and grinds against it, shoving his ass up as much as he can.

"Please do, Miles. Please. I think maybe if you don't, I might forget I'm gay. So you should probably work on that. With your dick. In my ass. In case I stop being gay. Which would be a fucking shame." Not that there's any risk of that, his dick replies. Not with Miles' hands on him. Not with Miles' voice rich and full of threat and sex.

"It would be a fucking shame," Miles agrees, darkly, holding Bass down with one hand as, with the other, he reaches to start getting the other man's trousers undone. "A damn fucking shame. But don't you worry. When I'm done with you, you won't be able to forget. And you won't be able to sit for a fucking _week_."

Bass squirms as helpfully as he can so Miles can unbuckle his trousers. He's not sure why they don't come with a rip-cord. It would make life easier. Maybe he should find a way to invent that. Anyway, it's not like Miles struggles to get them down, and then he's back to shoving his ass up invitingly. God, he wants it. He wants it rough and hard and loving and taking. His knuckles go white as he grips the desk and offers everything up as shamelessly as it's possible to do.

" _Please_ ," he begs. "Please, Miles. Please will you just… please will you just fuck me already? I need it. I need you. FUCK but I need you in me. PLEASE." His legs are shaking from the angle, but he doesn't give a shit. He wants Miles to know how desperate he is for this.

"Fuck, you _are_ eager for it tonight, aren't you?" Miles practically purrs at him, yanking his own trousers open and down and then reaching over to one of their packs – helpfully against the wall, close by – to tug out one of their bottles of lube. He applies some quickly, and then lines himself up behind Bass, hand on his back to keep him held down as he shoves himself in, all at once.

"You like that? I know how you love it rough, you sick fuck."

"I'm eager any night," Bass answers, pointedly. "How could I not be?" He's peering back over his shoulder to watch. He can see Miles' hands moving but that's about it. And it just makes him want all the more.

When Miles pushes in, though, he drops his head onto the desk and yelps. Yelps because it stings and pulls and feels so wonderfully, incredibly right. He arches up onto the balls of his feet, then slams back down to meet him. It jolts inside and there's that _fullness_ which is just impossible to explain, but perfect to feel.

"Yes," he agrees, voice wavering. "Oh god yes. I love it when you take me hard. I love it when you just push right into me. Oh god, yes, Miles. YES. So fucking… DO IT. PLEASE."

Miles slams into him roughly, leaning in close to growl in his ear. "You're gonna scream so hard you can't _speak_ ," he promises. "Now beg me." Another jolt, firm enough to smack Bass' hips into the edge of the desk. " _Beg me_."

Fuck. Fuck but this is so ridiculously hot.

"PLEASE," Bass whines. "Oh god, PLEASE will you fuck me good and hard? PLEASE, Miles, PLEASE!" There's no real room to manoeuvre, but he tries to squirm back into him anyway. "I need it. I need it so much. I need it so much I can't THINK."

"I know you do," Miles whispers, nipping at the back of his neck, breathing hotly against his ear. "I _know_."

And he starts to fuck Bass in earnest, hands gripping his hips as he drives back and forth, over and over. Biting his lip at how good it feels, at how every last second of contact just tugs at the need inside his head, making it stronger, making it brighter.

"Oh… oh… oh god yes… oh… oh fuck… Miles… SHIT JESUS FUCK MILES OHGODOHGODOHGOD!"

Bass doesn't even care that he's babbling. He can't. Not when Miles is making his body sing with pleasure. Everything burns. Everything. It's so gloriously hot and awake and alive and moving. But not quite… not quite enough to properly scratch the last of the itch. "Miles… please… please… my cock?"

A dark smile crosses Miles' face, and even though Bass won't be able to see it, he will be able to hear it. "Who said anything about letting _you_ come, you little deviant? You're gonna take it, and when I'm done with you… _then_ I'll decide if you get to come."

"Miles!" Bass' voice is the very picture of betrayed. "No! I've been good! I've been so good! Please let me come? Please, Miles… oh god… what can I do? Please tell me and I'll do it!"

Fuck, but he's so delicious when he begs. It sends a fresh stab of need through Miles, so strong and heady that he has to concentrate to hold on. "You'll come when I tell you. _If_ I tell you. And _only_ when I'm done with you."

Which won't be long, given how fast and hard the need is spreading through Miles, every last thrust driving him closer and closer to the edge, building and building until it all breaks and he's coming thunderously hard, shouting his triumph to the rafters. "Fuck! Yes! You feel so – fucking – good."

Bass makes a keening noise of pain. He wants to come so badly. He does. But Miles is giving him just enough stimulation to drive him mad without driving him over the edge. And it's… horrifyingly good. He lies flat out on the desk just… taking. Taking every last push. Every last thrust. Feeling the hotniceyes sensation of him coming deep inside. And whimpering brokenly as he waits for Miles to be done. Be done and decide what next.

Miles collapses over him, moving to kiss the scar on his shoulder, again and again. "You're mine," he whispers. "All mine. Always mine. Beg me. Beg me for mercy and I might just relent. If you make it good."

He traces his tongue along the white lines on Bass' skin; the four strikes of their M. Following each, teasing and worrying, slowly trying to wind him up all the more. Because he's fucking hot when he goes out of his head with need.

"Miles!" It's not fair. It's so not fair. He's turned on and Miles has stopped moving. He's turned on and hungry and needy, and Miles has taken his fill. And he's left still wanting and writhing under his hands and tongue. His fingernails scratch noisily over the varnish coating wood. "Miles… please! Please… I'm yours, I swear to god I'm yours. All yours. But please. PLEASE let me come. PLEASE."

And the tongue on his shoulder is just too much and he's suddenly fighting to get free. Fighting… because he doesn't want to be free. He wants to be anything but.

Miles slams him down _hard_ , wrestling for his wrists and pulling them up behind his back, holding Bass' hips in place with his own. "You're right," he growls. "You _are_ mine. But I think you haven't _really_ remembered that yet. Or is all this attitude in favour of something else?"

"Yes!" Bass all but screams. "Yes, oh GOD yes. MILES. PLEASE." He's still wriggling even though he's effectively pinned down and helpless. Because… because he has to. "Please… just… Miles!"

He doesn't even know what to say. He just hopes if he begs loud and long enough, Miles will work it out.

"No," Miles growls back. "You don't get it that easy. And if you're not careful, you won't get it easy at all."

Keeping Bass' hands behind his back, Miles pulls out of him and yanks him upright, marching him over to the bed and all but throwing him against it. "Strip," he orders. " _Now_."

Bass goes where he's pushed. He nearly falls on the bed and has to put his hands out for balance. But… right. Orders. Orders make sense. Orders he can do. He shakes off all of the offending clothes as fast as his shaking hands allow and then stands buck-naked in front of the bed. And – after the briefest of hesitations – he puts his hands on his head and waits.

Miles watches him, not moving until Bass goes still – and then the movement is all to strip himself, just as fast and efficient, though rather calmer. When he's done, he steps in close, almost but not quite making contact, but more than enough for Bass to feel the heat from his body. To see the sated look in his eyes.

"On the bed," he whispers. "On your back. Hands above your head."

Bass' eyes flicker up just once to read Miles' expression – and to nod ever so slightly – and then he climbs onto the bed and lies down. He puts his hands back on his head to make sure they stay down, and draws his feet up towards his ass. And waits.

Once Bass is in place, Miles climbs onto the bed beside him, pushing his legs down and apart with a rough hand and a glare, and then leaning in to make eye-contact.

But that's just one hand. In the other… he's got his gun. It isn't loaded – and hasn't been all evening, since he first settled on the thought of doing this. Bass isn't to know that, though. The man has done it to him more than once, and Miles figures it's time he returned the favour. With… a little twist of his own.

Eyes dark, he cocks the gun and presses it to Bass' temple. "Tell me again who you belong to."

Bass feels a bit self-conscious about lying flat out, but… he does it. And when Miles pulls the gun on him, his eyes tighten. His lips go into a thin, pale line and his nostrils flare as he breathes in.

"You," he says simply, head still but eyes turning to stare at him. "You, Miles. Only you."

Miles presses the gun in harder. "Then you had better beg me properly this time. Or I might forget to be merciful. _And just be cruel_."

He moves the barrel of his sidearm to the centre of Bass' chest, and starts to trace it slowly downwards, cold metal rubbing over warm skin. "I know how much you like guns," he whispers. "You sick, _sick_ fuck. Let's see how much…"

Which would be when the gun gets low enough to rub along the side of Bass' cock, rough and full of terrible, wonderful promise.

Bass' eyes go wide, then narrow. He's forgotten how to breathe. He has. It's complicated and means he has to drag air in and it hurts. It hurts a lot. Hurts because that gun… that gun stroking down over his stomach… over his cock.

"FUCK!" he blurts out, and grinds down against it. It's cold. Cold and lovely. And hard. And firm. And deadly. "Oh jesusfuckingCHRIST Miles… I'm yours! I swear to God! I swear to GOD. PLEASE. PLEASE." Hands pulling at his hair to keep still. "PLEASE will you let me COME?"

"Not yet," Miles breathes, and the look in his eyes is very much wicked. Very much. "Not until I say you can. _Not until I've driven you out of your mind with need_."

He presses the gun in more firmly, letting the barrel rub along the length of Bass' cock, up and down, over and over. Hardly breathing with how insanely, twistedly hot this is.

"I AM!" Bass insists, and he moves, too. Moves to rub himself against that gun like a horny teen. It shouldn't feel anywhere near as good as it does. But it does. It feels all kinds of amazing. "Miles… I'm begging you! Please?" His blue eyes are dazed and lost, looking on the verge of tears as he tracks Miles'. He's pulling his hair – hard – trying not to move his hands and jerk himself off against the barrel.

And this really should not be as hot as it is. But. It _is_. "No," Miles whispers, expression going from wicked to downright _evil_. "You said you were mine… and you're right. You _are_ mine… to do with as I please."

Which right now includes some truly fucked-up misuse of his sidearm barrel, as he presses it up under Bass' balls and then drags the end all the way up the underside of his cock to the very tip, toying with it.

Bass lets out a broken little 'fuck', but… still staring at Miles like he's ruined the world… he nods. Bites his lip into a thin, white line. Chokes down the whimpers of agony and tries to get as much friction against his cock as he can. He's not been told to stay still, so he sees no need to.

He wishes Miles would relent. Wishes he would see sense. Wishes he would just… let him.

"Tell me you love me," Miles whispers, leaning in closer so they're almost forehead-to-forehead. "Tell me how much you need this. Need _me_."

His tone is so soft, so sure… and yet he could break people with it. He wonders if he already has.

"I love you," Bass replies, his own voice quiet, but not whispering. "I love you more than anything. I love you so much it _hurts_ , Miles. It _hurts_." Staring up at him. Hoping Miles can see in his expression that he's telling the truth.

"I need you so much I… it… I feel… like if I don't have you… if I don't have you… the world will break into a million pieces and the only thing I'll have left is my gun."

Which… hits Miles with a sudden stab of guilt, cutting through the haze of power inside his head, and with a sharp gasp he drops his gun onto the bed between Bass' legs, hand moving to wrap around his cock and stroke hard.

"I love you," he whispers, surging in to kiss the other man bruisingly. "I love you so fucking much. Come for me."

Fuck yes. The hand on his cock pulls all the thoughts out of Bass' head and reduces him to just… feeling. Feeling with his cock, and feeling with his heart. Utterly under, he gasps and thrusts up into Miles' hand. His hot, tight, loving hand. He can't even see. He can't see for how lost in the fog of lust and love he is. "Yes," he whispers. Voice reverent and low. "Yes… love you," he says, using his hands to push his head up closer. Not demanding a kiss, just… to speak over his lips. "…yours!"

And then he can't hold on. Can't because that hand is just what he needs. Just enough. Just perfect enough. And as his voice gives way to a wail of heat, his balls tense and he's coming between them like there's no tomorrow. Like the only thing that matters is this. Them. Yes.

All the way through, Miles keeps on stroking him, intent on dragging every last drop of completion out of his lover – and never once looking away from his eyes, his own lighting up with pleasure at Bass' words.

"Yes," he echoes. "Yes. Mine."

He doesn't stop until Bass finally goes still – which is when he immediately moves the gun to the bedside table, out of the way, and surges over Bass again, slipping on top of him to pin him down but wrapping around him, to hold him tight.

"Fuck," Miles whispers. "Fuck, you're incredible."

Bass is just… shocked. And out of his head. And utterly, utterly wiped. He smiles a little brokenly, curling against him but not daring to move his hands.

"I love you," he says again. Because. It bears repeating. "I love you. Thank you." He wants to say more. Like… thank you for loving me back. Thank you for wanting me. Thank you for keeping me safe. Thank you for keeping me. But that's too complicated right now.

"I know," Miles whispers, gently. "I know. I've got you. It's OK, Bass. It's OK."

He rolls them both onto their sides, pulling Bass into his arms and holding him in tight against his chest. "You're amazing. My world. My strength. My everything. I love you."

Holding on tighter. Hands shaking a little with just how intense that love and that need really feel.

"No," Bass objects, even as he melts into the embrace, flowing into every gap to be as close to him as possible. "But yes."

Miles' shoulder is in reach, so he places the softest of kisses against it, then breathes over it. "So you remember me when you tickle," is all he will say about that.

Miles grabs Bass' hands and pulls them in around him, wordlessly encouraging the other man to hold on as much as he needs to.

And then he smiles – not a grin or a smirk, but just a smile. An everything-is-perfect smile, and one only Bass ever gets to see. "You feel so wonderful. I don't know what I did to deserve you… but it must have been something good."

Bass is happy to hold on, now he has permission to. He wraps one arm around his lover's hip and trails his fingers over his ass. The other one – trapped under him as it is – he just uses to brush against the slight burr of stubble that's creasing over his cheeks when he smiles. He looks utterly smitten. Utterly, hopelessly heartsick and adoring.

"You saved me from myself," Bass reminds him. "You gave me a best friend. You gave me a family. You gave me… you. You're owed more than just me, Miles. You're worth more than just me. The universe owes you… everything."

Miles puts a gentle finger to Bass' lips. "No," he says. "Whatever the universe might owe me… you more than cover. You're… the only person who has ever made me feel _right_. I didn't realise it until I had you. I didn't know… how wrong things were inside." He moves the finger from Bass' lips to trace the hand over his cheek. "And now I have you. And it's like… I'm seeing in colour for the first time."

Bass presses into the hand, his heart still skipping like mad. God. It's insane. It's insane how… fucked-upedly-great his insides feel. It really isn't just the sex. It's this. Love. Which he never, ever felt for anyone. Not for Emma… not for any string of women after her.

"All the colours I see are great," Bass points out. "Fire and heat and my chest sort of hurts, but it hurts good. It hurts… right. Not like pain-hurt. Like… like… I can't cope with how much I _feel_ hurt. And like I just want to walk up to you and say 'Hello, did you know I love you?' instead of 'Good morning'. Like… like… I want to find an orchestra and make them play gay love songs and just hold you while we listen to them. Like I want to run up to Jeremy and say 'DON'T YOU KNOW HE LOVES ME?' for no reason other than… you!"

Oh dear. The filter is down again.

This gets him another smile, this time with a flicker of amusement. But it's warm amusement. "I know what you mean," Miles admits. "We've been meeting so many people of late, and whenever I introduce us I don't just want to say 'I'm Miles Matheson and this is Bass Monroe,' I want to say, 'I'm Miles Matheson and this is Bass Monroe, the fucking love of my fucking life, and if you so much as vaguely irritate him I will end you.'"

Bass' beam goes even wider, which hardly seems possible. "You say the nicest things," he says, accusingly. Then steals a tiny kiss, and goes back to grinning again. "If you do decide to introduce me like that, I won't get upset. But I might add that if anyone touches your ass I will feed them their own genitalia."

"Oh, we'll make so many new friends…" Miles says, with a broad grin now. "If nothing else, the people we don't scare away will be of a… similar mind." He presses a kiss of his own to Bass' lips. "But I'll still end them if they so much as bother you."

Bass fingers sneak to stroke the hair back from Miles' temple. "We already have a 'type' of friend, Miles. Gay and fucked-up." His giddy smile makes his lips jump. "Maybe we shouldn't let on how turned on we get fighting. Or our training schools are going to look like… uhm. Brothels."

This makes Miles laugh. "Deviant," he says, nipping at Bass' lips. "I try to form a network of sensible, tactical installations to bring order and justice to a nation gone insane and you turn them all into sex." A beat. "You may have a point, though…"

"Well, if they choose to go have violent sex, then… that's their prerogative. Just so they don't think they're joining your army of sex–slaves. Because there is only _one_ person who gets your dick, Miles. And it sure as hell isn't Ollie. Or Jeremy."

"Damn right," Miles growls. "It's you. Over and over and over until both of us are out of our minds…"

Which makes this a good time to press in for another kiss, rougher and more drawn-out. Loving the way the other man feels in his arms; the way every sensation produces a reaction of its own.

Bass' fingers curl possessively around Miles' ass, making sure he stays pressed in tight. He opens under the kiss – letting Miles take – before cautiously responding. Fuck. Oh fuck yes. It sends a tingle all the way through him. Makes his toes itch. He moans into Miles' mouth and wishes… wishes… they had another night. Just one. Just one more night in this wonderful bed. In this wonderful house. With his wonderful man.

It's a long time before Miles pulls back, tracing his fingertips over Bass' cheek as he does, staring at him wonderingly. "And you love it," he points out – not in a winding-him-up sort of tone, but in a how-the-fuck-am-I-so-lucky? sort of tone.

"Ohfuckyes," Bass breathes out, eyes closed to just… feel. "Please… please… just hold me til morning. I don't want to fall asleep, because then I will wake up and have to leave… just… stay…?"

"I'll hold you," Miles promises. "I'll hold you all night. But… sleep. We have a long day's travel ahead of us and you'll be glad of it come the morning… and even more glad of it tomorrow night, when you're awake enough for me to remind you all over again just how amazing you are…"

Bass sighs heavily. "We can still have sex tired," he points out. "And it might be weeks before we get somewhere as nice as this again. I mean… we lucked out here."

"We did," Miles agrees. " _You_ did. Maybe you should do the talking more often…"

There's a little, derisive snort in reply to that. "You want me to bat my eyelashes in every town to get us a bed, Miles? Really? It won't work if you then shoot whoever was nice to me…"

This gets him a faux-outraged look. "I haven't shot anyone in days! Weeks, even! And yes, if you could do that, then we could have amazing sex in more interesting places."

"You are pimping me out, Miles," Bass says. His tone artificially numb as he fights not to laugh. "You want me to wave my ass and do the puppy-eye thing and make faces at people in order to lead them on and receive goods and services. You… monster."

And that's more than enough to make Miles push Bass onto his back again, pinning him down with a knee between his legs, an oddly fierce look in his eyes. "Never. You are mine. _All_ mine and _only_ mine."

Which means Bass can't hold back the gleeful smirk. "What if I flirt with them and don't put out though? Just so I can get a nice big bed. What if I just pretend like I might put out… sent off to work because I'm so pretty?"

Miles grabs Bass' wrists and pins them either side of his head, growling against his lips. "I think maybe we'll have to train Jeremy to do that part from now on. Because anyone so much as _looks_ at you the wrong way and I'll blow their head off."

"Promise?" Bass' eyes are glittering. "Really, really promise?" Wrapping his legs around Miles' waist. "Even if I am really very, very fuckable?"

"Promise," Miles tells him. "And yes, you are very, very, _very_ fuckable. But _only_ by _me_." He grinds in against Bass, needing him to feel it all the way through.

That elicits a loud gasp of pleasure, and Bass pushes down as much as Miles pushes up. "I… oh god… I… will… try to remember… ohhh… that…"

Miles smirks. "Somehow I don't think you'll be able to forget…" And he presses in to kiss Bass' throat over and over, nipping and sucking, hard enough to leave a mark.

Bass throws his head back, just… enjoying the attention. Which – let's be honest – he was trying to provoke. His smile is certainly proof he's sure he's got what he asked for. "Put your brand all over me," he insists. "Make sure no one can see me without knowing I'm owned."

"Oh, they know," Miles tells him, now kissing the pink mark over and over. "The way you follow me round. The way you stand _far_ too close all the time. They know you're _mine_ … and they know you love it."

Bass laughs a little, then nods. "I can't help it. It's like you're magnetic or something. If I get too far from you, I get…" He wets his lips, not… quite sure about the admission. "I… get panicked. Like. I need to be able to reach over and touch you. And I know that sounds fucking weird, and it's not like I feel it all the time it's… I… yeah."

"It's OK," Miles reassures him, more gently again. "I know. I don't like being apart from you either. It's like… if you're not there, _I'm_ not all there."

Gentle, gentle kisses now, just because he can. "But I'm _here_. So you can relax. Let go. Rest. You're safe. You're not alone."

"Never again," Bass agrees. "Okay. Okay. I'll try to sleep. Just… don't worry if I lie here and don't sleep. But… I guess I should stop talking to you, huh?"

"Yeah. Probably. But only for tactical reasons…"

Miles rolls them both back onto their sides, pulling Bass in close. Wanting him to feel safe and loved.

"Okay. But only because you asked nicely." Bass pushes in tight again and sighs. "Night, Miles."

Miles kisses him on the forehead. "Night, Bass."

***

The next morning they – somewhat reluctantly – get up early, making their preparations to leave Murton and get back on the road. As they're packing up, Miles finds himself looking again and again at the pair of M39s, still sitting on one of the tables.

So perfect for Bass. The man is a born sniper and Miles finds himself hoping, more and more, that it will be Bass – with that very rifle – who finally ends Franklin.

Miles, on the other hand, is not a sniper. He can do it at a push, but he's nowhere near as good as Bass, given that he much prefers the up close and personal approach. Which means… maybe he isn't the best person to have the second weapon.

But he thinks he knows who is.

"…Hey, Jeremy, come over here a moment?"

Jeremy is just finishing clearing up so the house is left good for any future occupant when Miles calls him. He starts drying his hands on a dishcloth and walks over. "Sure, Miles. What's up?"

"I've been thinking, ever since Faber gave us these rifles," Miles says. "I'm not one of life's snipers. I'm really not. But I have the feeling that maybe – with Bass' help – you could be. So… I want you to have the second one."

The man stares at Miles for a long, long moment. Unblinking. He's clearly shocked by this gesture. "…really?"

"Yes, really," Miles tells him. "I think you might find it more to your liking than the hand-to-hand stuff. And if anyone can teach you, it's Bass."

Jeremy stares at it. He tilts his head to one side and considers it. He knows Bass was bouncing around the house when he brought them back last night… and so therefore they must be good guns. They look powerful. And deadly. He leans forward and slides a hand down over the body of it.

"I hope so," he says, still not looking up. "I'd like to do Vera proud." Then he looks up and smiles. "Thanks, Miles. I really appreciate it."

Miles actually facepalms. "You named it already? Why am I not surprised?"

But he puts a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. "Do me proud as well."

Jeremy's answering grin is goofy. "Yeah. After Jayne's gun. Because that was badass." He pulls his hands back and snaps his heels together smartly.

"General, I will do. I will be the second-best sniper you ever saw. Or… didn't see."

Miles does not have a clue who Jayne is, or why she had a gun named Vera, but decides it's best not to question it.

"I know you will," he says, with a smile. "Now, come on, we have a lot left to do…"

***

**TEN MONTHS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

It's early afternoon when the heavens open.

The four are on the road, heading through the countryside, when the clouds start to gather overhead, quick and threatening. Before long, the sky is dark, the air heavy, and then without preamble, the rain starts to fall in a thick, persistent sheet.

Cursing it, Miles leads the others into the nearest forest, hoping that the trees will at least give them _some_ shelter.

"Ah! Why does it have to rain?! Why didn't they turn the rain off, instead of the power? I'm going to be DRENCHED," Jeremy complains.

"If they turned the rain off, you would die from no water eventually. Or only get to drink piss," Bass points out. "So shut up and get the tarp out so we can make a bivvy…"

But as they pull the horses into a space with trees far and close enough to tie the sheet to… they realise they're not the only ones here.

In the far corner of the clearing they've stopped in, a man stands staring at them, with a woman and a small boy at his back. He's got a piece of tree branch held in front of him as a rudimentary weapon, but from how much his hands are shaking, he doesn't look like much of a threat. None of them do. On the contrary, they look close to collapse; malnourished and terrified. And soaked to the bone.

"Don't… don't come any closer," the man says.

"Hey… hey it's okay," Bass says, pulling his horse to a halt and holding a hand up for the others to do the same. "We're just trying to shelter from the rain. You can shelter with us, if you want?"

"Tom… there's four of them," the woman whispers in the man's ear. "Should we run?"

He looks back at her. "I don't know. They have horses, but we might be able to lose them between the trees. Although…"

They offered us shelter. And we'd be fools to turn down help.

And he's way past being too proud to ask for it.

He takes a step forward. Not yet lowering the stick. "How do I know you won't hurt my family?"

Miles dismounts, taking a step towards the huddled group, but holding out his hand, palm down. "We won't, you have my word. We're travellers, like you. I'm Miles Matheson, this is Bass Monroe, and that's Jeremy Baker and Ollie Fischer."

This is followed by a moment of careful consideration… and then the stick is finally lowered. "I'm Tom Neville. This is my wife, Julia… and our son, Jason."

"Now… if you don't object, we should get the bivvy up before we all end up dying of exposure," Bass suggests. He dismounts, too, and goes over to Humvee to start pulling the tarp down.

Jeremy takes the hint and dismounts as well, before going to gather the horses and tie them all up together.

"Can… can we help?" Julia asks, warily. She's still holding on to her son in case anything happens. Not that she can do much, because she feels like she might pass out at any minute. Her eyes flicker over the four men.

Ollie goes to help Jeremy with the horses. She has a slightly wary look in her own eyes, too, but can't help giving Jason a little smile. Hoping Miles and Bass get the bivouac up quickly so they can get the poor kid sheltered from the storm.

"Just sit tight," Miles says to Julia. "Although… you can help us with this," he adds, looking at Tom. The man hurries over at once, and between the three of them they're able to tie the tarpaulin between several of the trees, forming a large bivouac with enough room for them all to gather under. And though it's still somewhat damp, it's a damn sight better than being in the full force of the downpour.

When the bivvy is up, Bass takes one long look over Jason. The kid looks wan and exhausted and… it sort of… hurts to look at him. So before anyone can say anything, he runs off to Humvee and starts rifling through the horse's pack.

"Man, but I did not enjoy that," Jeremy says as he starts pulling off his jacket and lying it flat off to one side. "You folks staying out here, or travelling?"

Tom pulls his family under the shelter as soon as he can, keeping them together – and still, unconsciously, staying in front of them. "We… have nowhere to go," he admits. "We were robbed a while back and… and now…" But he can't finish that sentence and so just trails off, looking dejected.

Bass walks straight up to him and shoves three candybars into his chest. "Eat these." And when he's taken them, he unhooks the waterskin from his belt. "And then drink this."

"It's not good to be out in the forest on your own," Jeremy says. "I found that the hard way."

Tom looks stunned by the gesture, but they haven't eaten in _days_ and he's not going to pass up the opportunity. "Thank you," he says, and then all his attention is on making sure his son eats.

Julia narrows her eyes at Bass. "What… do you want from us? We don't have anything." Although four men out in the forest on their own? She knows there's one thing they likely are missing. And it makes her blood run cold.

Miles catches the little edge to Julia's tone. The worry about what four armed men travelling around could possibly want, especially from a woman… and the thought knocks him sick. "We don't want anything from you," he says. "And we're not going to hurt you, I promise. You needed help… so we're helping. You… haven't run into many good people, have you?"

"…No," Tom says, a slightly haunted flicker in his eyes. "No, we haven't."

"Well you're in luck," Jeremy beams. "Seriously. Miles and Bass found me being beaten up and – well. About to be murdered. And they saved me and they taught me how to survive and they brought me along."

"You make us sound so noble," Bass mumbles.

"Well… you are. Compared to those thugs." Jeremy sounds defensive.

"Just… eat. Drink," Bass says, his cheeks colouring slightly. "We just… want to help as many people as we can." It sounds a bit weird to say it, but he guesses that's what's happening now. "And I ain't gonna watch your kid starve to f– to death when we have food."

Julia listens, but she's still not convinced. She takes one of the bars from her husband and opens it slowly. "Most people are… in this for themselves," she points out.

"You're right," Miles says. "A lot of them are. But… we're not most people."

"He's telling the truth," Ollie chips in. "They saved me too. Brought me along when they didn't have to. So… you don't need to worry. It's OK."

She almost wishes she could add, to Julia, 'I'm a girl too, and you're perfectly safe, they'd _never_ hurt anyone like that, and also they're all as gay as rainbows so seriously don't worry', but… she can't.

"We… haven't had a very good time of it," Tom admits, settling a little. "You'll have to forgive us being wary."

"No, you do right," Bass agrees, sitting down and peeling his own jacket off. "I mean, if I was you, I wouldn't trust me, either. But you gotta figure what else can you do?"

Jeremy leans over and whacks Bass on the arm. "You are really selling yourself, you know."

Bass' grin is toothy in reply. "Bite me, Jeremy."

"We'll just wait until the rain stops with you," Julia says. "Then we'll be on our way."

"If that's what you want, we won't stand in your way," Miles tells her. "But if you want to stay… we can look after you tonight, and get you somewhere safe tomorrow."

"…Safe?" Tom repeats, looking… not exactly convinced.

"Yeah," Miles goes on. "We're moving from town to town, teaching people combat and survival skills in return for lodgings and food. It's worked well so far. If the people in the next town seem decent, we can get them to take care of you."

"Some of the smaller places are holding together okay," Bass points out. "The cities pretty much are a bust. But… some towns are trying. And if you come in with us, then you can use the skills we'll be teaching to trade for supplies and a place to stay."

"…how are you managing to stay alive?" Julia asks. "You… have horses and food."

"We picked up the horses a while back, in return for helping out a little village in Kentucky," Miles tells her. "That's where we also met Ollie. As for the food… sometimes we hunt, sometimes we trade. Bass and I are… were… Marines, so we've been more than able to defend ourselves – and others, where necessary."

This catches Tom's attention in a new way. "You were soldiers?"

"Yeah," Bass says. He's sitting a bit more relaxed now. He still feels like shit because he's wet, but at least the rain is no longer falling on him. "Sergeants. We know how to catch food. And Jeremy knows how to cook it. So we get by okay most of the time."

"If you learn to hunt, you'll be much safer," Jeremy points out. "Because I know there's not much food from before left… and edible, anyway."

The talk of hunting clearly upsets the little boy Jason, who flings himself from his mother to his father. He leans up and whispers something in his ear.

Tom puts his arms around his son. "It's all right," he says, softly. "I think they're the good kind of soldiers. The kind who used to fight for America."

"We did," Miles says, looking at the kid. "So you don't have to worry." Then he looks to Tom once more. "Let us help you," he says. "I'd hate to think of you just going off again when things are so tough. Especially with your son to think about."

Tom looks torn, and stares back at his wife. "They have a point," he says. "And we… well, we haven't exactly done so well on our own."

Julia narrows her eyes and looks from one to the other… then to Tom. She's still got some misgivings but she's not about to admit that in public. If it comes to it, they can always try to run when the others are asleep. "That… would be very kind of you," she says as magnanimously as she can.

"Where are you guys from?" Jeremy asks. "If you don't know the local places, I guess it's from a ways away?"

"…You'd be right in that," Tom answers. "We're from Allentown in Pennsylvania. I have family out in St Louis, and… we were trying to get to them. It… was all I could think to do."

Allentown. Even though it's the big Allentown, and not the little village in Kentucky, hearing the name… makes Miles' breath catch. Though that's not something he can dwell on now.

"Makes sense," he says. "Bass and I originally set off from Parris Island Marine base in South Carolina. We're on our way up to Chicago to find my brother. So… I sympathise with the long walk."

"Walking is hard," Jason decides to tell them. "And boring."

Jeremy bursts out laughing. "Well… I guess it is if you don't have any friends your own age."

Jason nods, and then goes back to hiding against his dad.

"You still want to find them?" Bass asks. "It'll be hard if you do. I mean, we should have been in Chicago months ago… and we have horses and…" …know what we're doing. He bites his lip short of saying that, though.

"…I don't know," Tom admits. "I didn't… didn't think it would take us this long. Or be this hard. I…" He glances at his wife. He doesn't like admitting the weakness one bit, but it's kind of hard to deny given the state of things. "Part of me thinks… we should stop. Settle. But… we haven't been able to find anywhere safe."

"Well, you can always rest up the next good place we find, and recover. Then – when you're all fed and healed and experienced at survival – you can think again if you still want to go on," Bass suggests.

"Bass is right," Miles chips in. "Even if you decide to carry on, you'll fare a lot better if you stop for a while. Recover. Learn a few things."

Tom considers this for a moment, and then nods. "I guess you're right." He looks at his son. Sometimes… there are more important things than pride.

Beside him, Jason starts yawning.

"I think it's your bedtime, young man, don't you?" Julia asks.

Jason shakes his head furiously.

Julia gives him a flat look. "Now you know it is, Jason, so why don't you behave and show these nice men what a good little boy you are?"

Tom reaches over and grasps his son's hand. "We're going to be safe here," he says. "So it's OK."

"You'll be drier, too," Miles adds. "This storm might drag on for hours."

Jason decides to climb into his dad's arms. "Okay. If you hold me, I will."

Bass tries not to snort. Kids. "You want to get all the rest you can, kid. It might be a long ride tomorrow. That is, assuming you can all ride…?"

***

They can't all ride. Not yet, at least, Miles thinks, as they work out the best way to get everyone on horseback the next morning. Tom seems to have a vague idea of what he's doing, so they let him use Humvee – and after a few tips from Ollie he manages to get the hang of it. Ollie then takes Julia on Audi, and Jason – with a lift-up from his father – eventually goes with Bass.

Miles is not wholly sure why children seem to like Bass so much, but apparently they do. Stevie Faber certainly did, and now Jason Neville seems to as well.

And with the morning staying pleasingly cool and – crucially – dry, they ride back out to the road beyond the forest, continuing on their way to the next town up ahead… Vernon.

"Why do his ears do that?" Jason asks, prodding at Lamborghini's neck.

" _Her_." Bass corrects. "Her ears do that because… that's what horses do."

"Why?"

"Because they don't have eyebrows," Bass says, looking over at Miles with a 'please god help me' expression.

"Is she fast?"

"Yes, she's fast."

"How fast?"

"Jason," Julia interrupts him. "Why don't you let Mr Monroe have some peace and quiet?"

"But he's telling me about his horse!"

Miles considers rescuing Bass from the terrifying small child, but decides that watching is more fun. From a safe distance. He flashes Bass a little smirk that he _knows_ he'll pay for later, looking thoroughly unapologetic.

Tom… just grins. He knows he ought to intervene, but there's something so refreshing about seeing his son happy, and it's hard to put a stop to that. "She is a very fine horse," he says. "They all are. Although… you named them after cars?"

Miles shrugs. "I miss my car."

"And we're not going to get cars again, so why not?" Bass adds.

"I liked cars," Jason says, proudly. "Dad had a nice car."

"I'm sure he did," Bass says, and now it's death-glares at Miles. "You sure you don't want to ride with Miles?"

Miles continues not to look guilty. He's far too practiced at it. "And miss out on the experience that is Lamborghini: The Wonder Horse?"

"I like your horse," Jason says to Bass, and leans forward to stroke her neck before Bass works out what he's doing. He grabs him by the scruff of the neck and pulls him back upright.

"She likes you too, but she has a bit of a headache, so maybe you could be quiet?"

"Did she tell you that?" Jeremy teases.

"Yes," Bass snaps. "She gets headaches a lot. She's a girl."

Ollie laughs. "She bites, too. But I think Bass encourages it," she adds, dropping her voice as if sharing a secret with Jason. "He talks to her all the time."

"Will you please stop all insulting my horse?" Bass whines. "It's not my fault she bites. She's probably having woman problems. I don't know. I'm not a horse."

"I don't think horses have the same… uhm… issues as real women," Jeremy suggests.

Bass clamps his hands over Jason's ears. "Maybe we shouldn't discuss that in front of the kid."

Jason squirms free of the hands. "Hey… I'm seven, I'm not a baby."

"Or at all," Miles insists, looking at Bass in horror. Then he glances at Tom. "I'd like to say we're not usually like this, but… we kinda are."

"You always are," Ollie chips in. "I'm the sensible one, remember? Or… I was. Maybe I'm not anymore." She looks at Tom, too. "Being around them this long makes you a little weird. But it also makes you a little alive so I try not to worry."

It also makes you a little inclined to say 'fuck' every other word, so how Miles and Bass have managed not to for so long is anyone's guess.

Bass relents and lets go of Jason's ears. "We've been in the woods for most of the time since the lights went out. And we weren't the most adjusted of people before," he explains.

"What did you guys do before the Blackout?" Jeremy asks.

Tom goes a little… reticent. "…I was an insurance adjustor," he admits. "Which was as exciting as it sounds. But it was steady work that provided for my family, and that's what mattered."

"What did that entail?" Jeremy asks, honestly curious. "You changed people's quotes?"

"…Sort of. When people made a claim, I had to investigate it. Check that it was genuine, and how much money they were – or weren't – due."

And it was miserable. Miserable, heartless bureaucracy. But it paid.

"What about you?" Bass asks, because he's picked up on the note of despondency.

"Oh, I worked from home," Julia says, airily. "Home baking."

"…baking?" Bass is incredulous.

"Oh yes. Little cupcakes. Cake pops. Wedding cakes. You know."

"Sounds… uhm… delicious," Miles manages. Probably more delicious than insurance adjusting, though.

"And what about you, young man?" Ollie says to Jason. "You must have been in… the second grade?"

"I was," he says. "I was doing really good at Math, like Dad. And I was good at sports."

"What sports?" Bass asks.

"Baseball."

"I used to play baseball," Miles says. "Got kicked out, though, 'cause of… 'cause of an incident."

He is not mentioning the fucking duck again. Though he does throw Ollie a deadly look when the younger man gives a fake cough that most definitely conceals a quack.

"I'll play catch with you when we get to the next town if we can find a ball," Bass offers. "Been a while since I did. And Miles won't play with my any more."

Jeremy is about to make a comment about playing with balls but he manages to just nearly choke to death instead.

"Oh, cool. Yeah. I'd like that," Jason agrees.

"So you sit still and don't upset Lambo and it's a deal," Bass says, pointedly ignoring the red-faced Jeremy.

"What is the next town?" Tom asks, trying to help with the change of subject.

"Vernon," Miles answers. "We should be there in a couple of hours. No idea what we'll find when we arrive so we'll play it safe until we know for sure."

"Yeah. Probably makes sense to split up again. They might not like all of us riding in – even with a kid in tow," Bass points out. "Never good to make them wary of you on your first trip into town."

"…how will we split up?" Julia asks.

"Usually a couple of us go in and the others stay somewhere close by with the horses," Miles tells her. "So we'll make brief camp outside the town and then I'll go in with Ollie, and we'll see if the welcome is friendly. Once we know, we'll come back to you – either to bring you in, or to avoid the place if necessary."

"If it's friendly, we'll offer our services to the people there," Ollie adds. "Hopefully that means we should be able to get some sort of lodgings reasonably quickly. Most of these towns have a lot of empty houses now."

"And this… works for you?" Tom asks.

"Usually, yes," Miles tells him. "And if nothing else, it means we don't show our whole hand until we know the lay of things."

"Plus, if two soldiers go in at once, they tend to get… nervous," Bass points out. "Ollie and Jeremy are less threatening."

"Wow, if that isn't a boost to my confidence," Jeremy complains, but good-naturedly.

"Jeremy, you couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag without getting papercuts."

"Harsh!" Ollie says to Bass. "Besides, you need all kinds to make a world, or to impress the nice people of… where did you say we were headed? Vernon?"

"That's right," Miles answers.

"Yes, we need to convince them that we can make paper airplanes without getting septicaemia." Bass shrugs.

"And that we can cook without giving them food poisoning," Jeremy retorts.

"Touché."

"Do I need to get you two a ring of fire and a pair of sharp sticks?" Ollie says.

Miles shakes his head and looks over at Tom apologetically.

"I'm all done," Jeremy says. "Sorry."

"While you're in town, I'll teach the – Nevilles? – " Bass looks at them, struggling to remember, "how to build basic shelters."

"Do I get to stay with you and Mom and Dad?" Jason asks.

"Uhm. Sure."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Miles agrees, with a little grin. "Ollie and I will scope the place out and then head back to meet you."

And hopefully it will go well. After sleeping under a damp bivouac all the previous night… somewhere friendly with beds would be something of a godsend.

***

They make it to the outskirts of Vernon and, leaving everyone else in a secluded spot on the edge of the nearby forest, Miles and Ollie head into town. It's a while before they come back, but when they do, it's clear from Miles' expression that things have indeed gone well.

"Well you're not bleeding, or covered in someone else's blood, so I guess they are happy for us to visit?" Bass asks, unable to keep the concern in his voice out, or the way his eyes wander over Miles to make sure he is – in fact – fine.

"Oh yeah," Miles answers. "Seems they've been hearing rumours of bandits coming in from the east, so when I said we were offering to train people up in return for lodgings, they practically fell over themselves saying yes. We should be safe here – and they've said they're willing to take you and your family in," he adds, turning to Tom, "if you want to stay longer."

"You… think they're genuine?" Tom asks, cautiously hopeful.

"I do," Miles says. "But we'll be here a good few days before we head on, so you've got time to think about it whilst we're still around."

"It would be nice to have a home again," Julia says, warily looking between them all. "Maybe even some new clothes."

"Hah, yeah. You know after a while, you sort of forget you used to change your clothes every five minutes," Jeremy muses. "I guess other things become more important."

"Let's head on in, and you can see for yourselves," Miles says.

As they start to pack up, he moves over to Tom when the man is on his own, wanting to speak to him out of earshot of his wife and kid. "Listen," he says, "you guys should stay here, at least for a while. Rest up, get some decent food in you. And if you decide to head on to St Louis then I wish you good luck… but if you don't, and you're still here… at some point, we'll be back. This training plan is more than just sharing and trading our skills. We're trying to build up contacts, to form a militia. To take on the man who's running all those bandit groups. And if you want in… we'd be glad to have you."

Tom looks a little surprised by this, but nods after a moment. "I'll bear that in mind," he says – and adds, with a smile, "…a militia, eh? The way things are going… there might just be a future in that…"

***


	5. 2C - Citizen/Soldier

They spend just over a week in Vernon, which is more than enough for the Nevilles to opt to stay, at least for the time being. That done, the four ride on, eventually reaching the small town of Smithsville, a little way south of Indianapolis itself.

There's a warm welcome waiting for them here, too – perhaps word is starting to spread about them – and, for a few days, they start up training people in the town.

It's late evening when Miles gets back to the house they're staying in – he's been off talking to one of the locals, a man named Stuart O'Donnell, who's been extremely in favour of the whole militia idea and is talking about forming a small, subtle unit within the town to carry on the training after Miles, Bass, Jeremy and Ollie move on.

"Hey," Miles says, as he comes in. "Sorry I'm so late back. O'Donnell was talking about possible locations to set up a dojo here and it took longer than expected."

Jeremy puts his finger to his lips and quietly shushes, then points at Bass.

Bass who is sitting at the table surrounded by candles, pieces of paper, pens, pencils, and bits of string.

"He's been like that for the past half hour," Jeremy whispers.

Miles looks surprised, and moves closer, dropping his voice as he speaks. "What the fuck?" he says, softly. "Where did all..? Wait…" Now he looks closer… Miles recognises some of the bits of paper. "Jeremy. Is that the stuff we took from the bandit camp outside Allentown?"

"Out!" Bass says, shooing Miles with one arm. "I've almost got it. Go think loudly somewhere else."

Jeremy crooks a finger at Miles to get him to come further away from the slightly crazy looking Bass. "Yeah. I think he's been working on it in secret since we left. Then on the way back tonight, he said he needed everyone to leave him alone because he thought he could 'see' it in his head, or something."

"I can still hear you," Bass sighs. "Outside!"

"I think he's going to his Mind Palace," Ollie whispers, with a grin, as Miles gestures them out the room – before his curiosity can get the better of him and make him interrupt more.

"He just went all sort of House on us, and then he wouldn't talk to us, and told us we were breathing too loudly," Jeremy complains. "I didn't know he had an interest in cryptography."

"Me neither," Miles says, once they're out of the room and he's shut the door. "So either he's been holding out on me… or he's gone nuts." He glances back at the door. "…I'm going with nuts. What the fuck is all that string for?"

"He said something about making all the lines meet and how he'd kill for a highlighter." Jeremy shrugs. "He has gone nuts. Maybe we need to stage an intervention."

"If we stage an intervention, at least one of us won't live to see tomorrow," Ollie points out. "I say we just send Miles in there, barricade the door shut, and hope for the best."

"Hey!" Miles says. "All for one and one for all, remember?"

"Yes, but if you're Athos you have to go first," Jeremy insists.

Miles glowers. The only thing worse than letting the nerds know you do actually know some of what they're talking about is when they then turn it around and win anyway. Or something.

"Fine," he says. "But if he throws things at my head I am going to duck and they are going to hit you instead."

"You're a brave man," Jeremy says, clapping Miles on the shoulder. Face straight. "You take this one for the team."

Miles doesn't even blink. "I can kill you in your sleep," he points out, utterly deadpan.

"And yet you never do." Jeremy pushes him on encouragingly.

"Not yet," is all Miles will say to this, and then he turns and goes back to the door before he does something he'll probably regret later. "Stay here," he adds, not looking over at them, and goes back into the room, shutting the door behind him before the other two can follow.

Bass doesn't look up. He's… he…

"YES!" he yells, pushing his chair back from the table in delight. He runs his hands through his hair, over the moon with his breakthrough. Which is when he sees Miles is in the room, and he smiles like he's just worked out how to get an indefinite supply of strawberry lube. "I did it!"

Miles grins, and tries not to look like he thinks Crazy Bass is something of an odd turn-on. "Did what?" he asks, moving closer. "Bass, what is all this stuff?"

Bass goes over and grabs Miles' hand, dragging him to show his work like some overly proud child. "I cracked it!" he says, waving at the monstrosity of code and cipher. String leading from one letter to another, and scribbled out translations. "I worked out Franklin's code! Look!" He grabs a piece of his translation and shoves it into Miles' chest.

"…Fuck," Miles breathes, looking at it. He can't for the life of him work out how Bass has made sense of it, but now that he _has_ , it's clear what he's holding. "Fuck, Bass… this is a supply schedule. You know where these miserable fucks are going to be."

Where. When. How. Fuck.

He grabs Bass and kisses him. "You're a fucking genius."

Bass carries on grinning like a lunatic. "Yes. Yes. It's why I kicked you all out. It was… it was right _there_ and I knew we had a chance to do something. To act, not react. Miles… Miles we could… _hurt him_."

He's even more pleased that Miles is pleased with him, though, than anything else.

Miles is still staring at the mess of papers like they're the answer to the meaning of life. He looks more carefully at the one he's holding, staring at the coded letters, and Bass' accompanying decryption.

"You're a fucking genius," he says, again. "These look to be a list of supply runs, all over Kentucky and Indiana… fuck, this psychopath is _everywhere_ …"

The papers are a few months old, so most of the dates seem to be past… but not all of them. Miles' eyes go wide again. "…Bass, this says he's going to have people in Indianapolis. In two days."

Bass nods. "We can make it. We'd have to push, and leave early, but we could make it." He's been thinking the same thing himself.

"Then that's what we do," Miles says, his eyes darkening a little. "We have to. We have to start hitting this guy where it hurts."

"But what about the people here?" Bass asks, suddenly hit by a twinge of guilt. "Are they ready for us to leave them?"

"…They'll have to be. We can't miss an opportunity like this. And they're certainly the most enthusiastic we've encountered thus far. If there's anyone who can keep things going after we leave, it's O'Donnell."

He shrugs. "Okay. Okay… you're right on that. But we should set out tomorrow at noon at the latest, if we are going to get to Indianapolis on time. Assuming these plans still hold true…"

"That's the crucial question," Miles says. "If they do… we can really send a message to this guy – that his days are numbered. That we mean business." He reaches to pull Bass in closer again. "And it's all thanks to you."

Bass actually blushes. He doesn't often. But he does enjoy being pulled in close. "It was nothing, really. I mean. Just the stuff off cereal boxes. It's not like it was some super-computer shit. Just some shift and I had to remember to check all the three letter words and where 'e' came in…"

Miles kisses the side of Bass' head. "Genius," he whispers. "We'll tell the townspeople in the morning. Tell them why we have to go so suddenly. We'll leave O'Donnell in charge, tell him to get people to keep training, and we'll ride for Indianapolis. We can do this, Bass. We can hit this son of a bitch hard."

"I should probably apologise for throwing things at Jeremy and Ollie, though," Bass says, trying to brush off the sudden attention. "I was a bit of a dick."

"Nah, it was tactical," Miles insists, waving a vague hand at the door. "Besides, a bit of healthy projectile-avoidance will be good for them."

"So… do I get… special treatment tonight?" Bass asks, hand sliding down Miles' back to his ass. "I mean. We're going to be riding hard. Probably be all tired from the road…"

Miles grins, and pushes Bass against the wall, his expression equal parts wicked and adoring. "Oh, I think some special treatment is definitely called for," he agrees. "Along with some hard, _hard_ riding…"

Bass' hands rest on Miles' hips, and he grinds up against him hopefully. "They don't know I've cracked it already," he points out. "Maybe they should think it was… harder…" another rub against him, "…than it really was…"

This makes Miles lean in and whisper in Bass' ear, "I think it's pretty hard already…" And then he presses in for a kiss – a proper one this time – slow and deep.

Bass' toes curl in his boots. Oh god yes. He loves when Miles gets all pushy and horny. He slides his hands under his waistband to curl around his lover's ass, rocking him firmly to check just how hard. Head tilted for the kiss, liking being the centre of attention again.

Miles knows – on a rational level – that they really ought to tell the other two the plan, before he drags Bass off to bed. He knows this. The trouble is, 'rational' does not often get a look-in in the world of Miles Matheson… especially not when he's already this distracted.

"I want you," he breathes, against Bass' lips, when the kiss breaks. "I want you _badly_."

That makes Bass groan at how fucking hard it makes his cock. Of course he wants him. Bass wants Miles just as much.

"Why don't you have me, then?" he asks, placing a little tease of a kiss to the side of Miles' mouth. "Right here. On the table. With all my sexy spy shit."

"You read my fucking mind," Miles growls, and pulls Bass away from the wall, before jamming him against the table and urging him to push up and sit on the edge of it – so that Miles can then press in between his legs, kissing Bass all over again, but harder this time.

It makes a mess of all Bass' tidy (okay, insanely messy) hard work, and it sort of stings him for about thirty seconds to consider all the creased paper and misaligned string… but then Miles is kissing him again, and Bass wraps his legs around his waist and locks his ankles over his ass, hands all over his face and down to try and peel the clothes back from his chest.

Before the kiss even breaks, Miles is trying to do the same – yanking Bass' shirt off sharply and then pressing in to lay a trail of rough kisses across his chest, head ducked to worry over a nipple with his tongue. Wanting the reaction and… yes, if truth be told, wanting the noise.

Bass grabs the back of Miles' head and holds him in place, yelping loudly (shit, the other two are going to hear) and trying to make Miles keep doing it. Or do it more. Yes. More. He scratches his fingers over Miles' chest, trying to urge him on with short, sharp pain. "MILES!" he growls. "Will you PLEASE..? MILES!"

This makes Miles grind in hard again, and without lifting his head, he pushes Bass roughly down onto his back in a flurry of paper and string. And then, he kisses a path across Bass' chest, moving his attention to the other nipple, tormenting it with the tip of his tongue, and nipping at the tender skin.

"I fucking love you," he growls, in between it all.

Bass holds on instinctively, going back but keeping Miles close all the way through. Miles who still isn't in his goddamn pants. He yowls at the teeth and tongue, and tries to rub himself against Miles by shuffling up and down the table.

"I know!" he whines. "So fucking show me already! Jesus, Miles, what the fuck do I have to do to get you in me?"

This makes Miles grin, dark and deadly. "You could try begging me," he suggests. "But… I love the noises you make when you're utterly _desperate_ … so I might just torment you some more, first. Unless you make a _very_ convincing case."

"MILES," Bass yells, forgetting that people can hear. "PUT YOUR GODDAMN FUCKING COCK IN MY GODDAMN FUCKING ASS. I DID THE GOOD THING. I NEED FUCKING NOW."

Miles' expression turns even more dangerous. "Say _please_ ," he murmurs, flicking his tongue over that nipple again.

Bass grabs Miles' hair and pulls him away from his chest. Pulls him up so they are nose to nose. His eyes are dancing with furious hunger. " _Please_ ," he growls, in the least gratiating voice of all time. "Please, Miles, will you fuck me? Before I get bored of waiting and find something else to shove up there."

This makes Miles wrestle for Bass' wrists, dragging his hands away and slamming them down against the tabletop, holding them either side of Bass' head. " _No_ ," he growls, right in the other man's face. "Nothing else. No _one_ else. You got that? _Just. Me_."

The jealousy in Miles' eyes – even over something as simple as Bass finding some kind of sex toy – stokes the fire in his belly to an inferno. He grinds against his crotch, trying to get Miles with the picture. The picture of him in his ass. "Then fuck me," he insists. "Fuck me, and remind me how good it feels. Make me all yours, because I'm so fucking horny right now I'd fuck nearly anything."

This is not true, but he wants Miles' reaction more than anything else.

Miles isn't sure – through all the haze – where this fire in his head is coming from. It isn't like he's never done it or felt it before – of course he has – but usually with preamble, or conscious decision. Not… not just like this.

But it doesn't change facts. The fire is there… and it permeates everything. And before Miles is even fully aware of what he's doing, he backhands Bass across the jaw and yanks him upright.

"Would you, now?" he growls. "You fucking little _slut_."

Before Bass can answer, Miles pulls back just enough to force the other man to turn, now slamming him down on his front, hand going to start working on getting his trousers open.

Oh yes. Oh god yes. The sharp pain and the light in Miles' eyes. The rush of adrenaline to his head. The rush of blood to his cock. Bass looks deliriously pleased. He braces himself against the desk, spreading his legs like the slut he's accused of being, shoving his ass up in the air invitingly.

"I am," he agrees. "I'm a slut. A whore. I'm starving for a dick to slam into me. I'm gagging to be made to ride it. Shove it in me, Miles. Split me open and fuck me senseless. I want to come screaming your name…"

Once Miles has Bass' trousers and boxers down, he does the same to himself before pressing in over the other man, leaving no room for doubt as to how hard he is right now. "Oh, you'd better," he says, lacing his fingers through Bass' hair and yanking his head back. " _You'd better_."

He kicks Bass' legs as far apart as he can, then lines himself up and pushes in, rough and dry. Wanting it to hurt before it feels good.

Bass' legs shake under the stress of the position, and the pain of being taken so hard. It stings and aches and hurts and burns and feels fucking incredible, too. The pain is just this side of horrible, and into incredible. He claws at the desk frantically, panting and coasting out the feel of Miles cramming into his ass. He rocks up onto his toes and tries – whimpering – to roll his hips around the intrusion. Tries to open himself up more.

"Ohfuckyes! Shit, yes… please… Christ… Miles!"

Miles slams into him, hard. It sends waves of red-hot sensation rolling through his own body, and he knows it will be even more intense on the receiving end. Knows how easy it is to drive Bass out of his mind like this.

"You like that, do you? You'd better beg me for more… or I might stop."

"SHIT!" Bass yells. "Don't you fucking stop! MILES. MILES. I NEED YOU TO KEEP FUCKING ME. FUCK ME HARD. I DESERVE IT."

He's off his head with lust, or he'd not be caving so easily or begging and screaming so loudly. Not so soon, anyway. His poor, swollen cock trapped and bumping into the desk. "MILES?!"

Fuck, but that's so hot. Miles closes his eyes as the rush of hot pleasure races through him, slamming into Bass again in response, then wrestling for his wrists once more and yanking them both up behind his back.

"Oh, you deserve it all right, you little slut," he growls. "And you're going to get it."

And he starts to fuck Bass hard, not stopping now, driving back and forth relentlessly. Intent on keeping going until he's forced the other man right out of his own mind.

The harsh pain of it eventually melts to just pleasure. Bass doesn't fight the hands holding his own, even though it makes him uncomfortable as sin. He scrapes his toes over the ground, crying out with each push of Miles' beautiful cock into his abused ass. Humping the desk furiously. He needs to come. Needs so very badly to come.

"Please!" he begs, brokenly. "Please, Miles, please… oh god I can't, I can't… PLEASE GOD YES!" He starts to buck in earnest, just this shy of close enough to come. Used and abused and loved and loving it.

Miles is close too. Agonisingly close. But unlike Bass… he can pick his moment. "You're _mine_ ," he growls. "You understand me? _Mine_."

He slams in again. And again. And on the third time, the pleasure overwhelms, and all of a sudden he's coming fiercely hard, riding out his climax against the other man's all-too-willing ass. And _fuck_ , but it feels good.

"Yes! Yes! Yours!" Bass promises. Oh god but it feels good. Feels incredible. Feels wonderful. Feels like sex should feel and never did before Miles. He's teetering on the edge, holding himself back for all he's worth because he's not been told he can come. Even when Miles explodes inside him. He's not been told he can come. With a yelp of frustration, he takes every last thing Miles can give him.

"… _please_ ," he begs. "Please, General… please… yours…"

…It's still so very wrong how _hot_ that rank sounds on Bass' lips. So very wrong. And slightly too perfect.

Once the last waves of pleasure die down, Miles lets go of Bass' wrists and slides one hand underneath him, wrapping it around the other man's cock. Holding tight… but not stroking. Not yet.

"Beg me," he whispers. "Beg me right now… or you get nothing more."

"No!" Bass sounds horrified at the prospect of being left wanting. "General, please! Please… please let me come, I've been so good, I've been so very good and I haven't fucked anything else even though I wanted to so badly it hurt… please… please, Miles…" His voice breaks at the end, shaking under the weight of the moment. Trying not to come just from being held.

Miles presses in tighter, until he's close enough to whisper in Bass' ear… and from how hard and still he's holding the other man's cock, you could really believe he plans to refuse him anything more.

But he couldn't. Not really. Not his Bass.

"How could I ever deny you, my beautiful genius?" he whispers, gentler now… and immediately starts to stroke Bass' cock hard and quick. "Come for me."

The words destroy him more surely than that hand does, and Bass cries out in bliss as Miles finally gives him permission. He can't even really move because he's so pinned in, so he just has to let his body take over. Let his cock take over. It's not difficult to do, because he's so hard he's already seeing stars. He wails as his climax hits, spurting hot and heady onto the desk.

"General!" he chokes out, going limp and collapsing underneath him. Only the desk holding his boneless body up.

Once it's all over, Miles wraps his arms tight around Bass and holds on. "I've got you," he whispers, softly. "I've got you, Bass. Fuck. Fuck, you were amazing."

He lays gentle kisses against the other man's back, tongue tracing over the mark on his shoulder. Wanting only to make him feel loved, now.

Bass just lies there, panting. Sweat cooling on his skin. He still aches where Miles is pushed into him, but it's a good ache. A nice pain. They've made a complete mess of the desk and he doesn't care. The kisses to the M on his shoulder just making him beam with pride.

"I love you," he murmurs, just… resting. He doesn't think he'll be able to walk or sit any time soon.

"I know," Miles whispers back. "I love you too. I love all of you. Just relax, now."

He doesn't want to move any time soon but knows it will be inevitable before long… so he enjoys the moment whilst it lasts; the heat from their skin, the low, dull throb of lingering pleasure deep down. The way Bass feels beneath him, warm and yielding and so utterly _his_.

"Might fall asleep," Bass says, reluctantly. Because he feels so utterly good that… yes. He could just close his eyes now and sleep. And be happy.

"Then let me take you to bed," Miles whispers. "Let me take you to bed and hold you all night long." It does sound like a very welcome prospect.

"What about the others?" Bass asks. "We can't leave them out all night in the garden."

Miles grins. "They'd enjoy it, really. But… I guess not." He sighs. The problem with hasty, unplanned sex is that he can't just curl up in bed afterwards. Damned consequences. The _other_ problem is that the other two have probably _heard_ more than is helpful. "…We'd better tidy up a bit. And tell them. And _then_ I am taking you to bed."

"Okay… but can I stand up until we get to bed? Because… ow. I think you ripped me a new one…" He's smiling though.

"You enjoyed it," Miles points out, low and devious. "And yes, you can."

Which means it's time for sensible moving. But… it doesn't have to be for long.

***

The next morning, they pack up quickly, then go in search of the O'Donnells. O'Donnell Sr – Stuart, to his friends – has been their main point of contact in Smithsville. When they find him, he's in the town square, leading a group of people through some warm-up exercises in preparation for the day's planned training. His only son, Anthony, is with him – a man in his early twenties, and sharing his father's eagerness to learn from their visitors.

"Here they are!" Anthony calls out. "We thought we'd get started so we'd be ready for you." He doesn't break the pace of his warm-ups, though.

"Yeah, sorry about that. We had some last minute emergency plans," Bass explains, waiting until they get closer to go into more detail.

Miles cants his head to the side. "Can we speak to the two of you alone?"

Stuart looks a little surprised, but nods and moves to follow them off to the side, out of earshot of the group of people. There's the barest flicker of worry in his eyes as he does – he can tell something must be going on, but has no idea what just yet.

"There's not an easy way to say this," Bass says, looking to Miles but… damn he feels responsible for this. "We… have got some intel. Some… some indication of Franklin's movements. It's taken us a while to decode it, but we think we can hit one of his convoys to prove the information is legit."

"All right, and you need our help?" Anthony asks.

"Not exactly," Miles answers. "We need to do this with as few people as possible, to keep it off the radar until the last moment. But we also need to do it quickly… and that means we have no choice but to leave Smithsville this morning."

This makes Stuart glance a little worriedly between Miles and Bass. "You're leaving already?"

"We have no choice," Miles repeats, carefully. "This information is time-bound. We have to get to the place in question before the convoy arrives or the whole plan will fall down. Which means… we need to move on sooner than we intended, and that in turn means we need to leave someone in charge of what we've started here. That would be you."

"But you said we needed at least a week of training!" the younger O'Donnell blurts out. "Are you coming back?"

Bass throws a look over at Miles. "I think you guys are pretty much good to go. Some of the others need more help than you two. Which is why you should take the lead."

"Bass is right," Miles says. "You're among the best we've seen, and you've got what it takes to build the rest of these people up. They know you, they respect you… and they'll follow you. And yes… we will come back. Not straight away – we have to keep heading for Chicago. But when the time is right, we'll be back, and when that day comes… we'll start taking the fight to Franklin once and for all."

Stuart seems to consider this for a moment, and then nods. "All right," he says. "I can do it. _We_ can do it. We won't let you down, Generals."

That word is still so weird on someone else's lips, Bass thinks. It was mostly a joke, but Jeremy ran with it in public and now other people are picking up on it. He smiles, nervously. "We know you will. And if it wasn't something as important as this, I swear we wouldn't be going. It's just that this could be the inlet we need. This could be the break that starts everything going the right way."

"So you think you can read all their messages now?"

"If they use the same cipher or similar, yes," Bass says.

"Then you're right… this isn't an opportunity you can pass up," Stuart agrees. "Go show that son of a bitch what you're made of, and rest assured… when you get back, we'll be ready to follow you to the ends of the Earth."

***

**INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA**

Two days later… and the streets of Indianapolis are quiet. Almost no one remains in the big cities now, and this place is no exception. It's mid-morning, the air hot and dry, lifted by the lightest breeze.

In the centre of the city, where once cars and buses moved in a ceaseless flow, all is still… until the sound of horses' hooves cuts the air. Through the dust, a large cart draws into view, pulled by a pair of chestnut stallions, hurrying along the deserted road with outriders alongside it. The cart approaches a bend in the road, between the alleyways and empty skyscrapers, turning sharply to the right.

Straight after the corner there's a rather large barricade. It's completely impassable with a vehicle of any kind. The driver swears and yanks hard on the reins, attempting to pull the horses around in as tight a circle as the wheels and road allow.

Which is when – from somewhere up high – shots ring out. Bam. Bam. The sniper takes out the driver and shoots one of the wheels, causing the cart to wobble as it turns. Then the only targets left visible are horses, and Bass refuses point blank to shoot those.

As the cart tries to head back the way it came, a large car comes rolling rapidly out of one of the alleys, pushed by Miles and Jeremy. The car halts in the middle of the road, comfortably blocking the way back, and leaving the cart very much trapped.

That's when the fire sparks up. There's wood around, which looks at first like debris, but on closer inspection is too well-placed to be random. A smaller figure – Ollie – darts around behind it, lighting it up with a long piece of brushwood. It shouldn't spread too close to the cart, but it's packed with enough material to fill the air with smoke.

And through the haze, Miles closes in, gun up and firing as soon as he sees movement. A couple of men burst out of the cart – one goes down immediately, and the second manages to yell something incoherent but angry before he too is dropped by a double-tap to the chest.

Bass takes down another with the rifle, but then everything's too close for him to risk injuring someone he likes, and he's forced to just watch through the scope.

Both outriders down, the driver, the two from inside… no. No. Three. Miles sees the third man launch out the other side of the cart and hurtles after him through the smoke. It takes a second to get his aim right, but when he fires, the runner goes down all at once in a sprawl of limbs.

Silence. And, as fast as it began… it's over.

"Everyone all right?" Miles calls.

"Fine," Jeremy answers, sounding a little shaken. "Yeah. Fine."

There's still a lot of smoke and fire. The horses pulling the cart are whinnying in distress, trying to wheel around, but slowing to a halt. One of the horses being ridden, however, is down. Whatever happened to its rider, it's sprawled on the ground with the dead man still in the stirrups. The horse's eyes are white with fear and pain; its leg very obviously broken in two.

"I'm OK too," Ollie calls, from somewhere beyond the smoke. She's still behind the fire so it takes her a moment to move around it safely, her own expression still a little shocked by what they've just done. Because… planning it and doing it aren't the same thing.

Miles, meanwhile, advances on the fallen horse. The survivors, they can use, but this one… there's no hope for, and he knows it. So before Bass or Ollie can get close – well-aware neither of them will be happy about the situation – he moves in, shooting the stricken animal twice in the head.

Jeremy just stares at Miles. He… did he… "Miles?"

"It wouldn't have survived," Miles tells him, without looking over. "It was either that… or leave it to die in agony." His voice is rather too level.

Ollie stays back. She looks on the verge of tears, but takes a deep breath and doesn't say anything.

"I… okay." Somehow, seeing the horse die was worse than the people. Jeremy isn't sure what he thinks about that. "What… now?"

"Now… we see if we've really hit the jackpot or not," Miles says, keeping his gun out – just in case – as he advances on the cart. It's fairly large, made of pale wood, and on the side there's an emblem they've seen here and there before – a dark square bisected by the winding curve of a stylised river. Franklin's emblem.

Miles reaches up to pull open the door of the cart, pointing his gun in all at once in case there's anyone still alive inside. Thankfully, there isn't – but there are a number of heavy-looking crates, stacked together. He clambers in and levers one of the crates open… and then looks out at the others, his face splitting into a grin. "Jackpot," he says. "Full of weapons."

"Oh… good." Jeremy smiles, even though he's still reeling from all the death and shooting. "And even better, Bass' code-breaking worked."

"Of course it worked," Bass says, running over as fast as he can. He's panting hard from the stairs he's just taken, sniper rifle slung over his shoulders. "Nice job, everyone."

Even though Miles knows Bass was in the safest place of all of them during the attack, seeing him is still very much a relief, and he launches out of the cart to throw his arms around the man. "Fuck, you're a damn good shot," he says.

Bass laughs and tries to pick Miles up. It fails miserably and just ends up with them hugging bodily and getting smacked in the legs with the barrel of his rifle. "So are you, Miles. I see we made it without any casualties."

"Not on our side, anyway," Jeremy agrees.

"That was absolutely textbook," Miles says, reluctantly letting go of Bass and turning to look back at the cart. "And you were right, Bass. Thing's full of guns. You've got that son of a bitch's code, and we… we can do this again. And again."

"Not too often," Bass points out. "Or he'll know we've got him bang to rights, and we won't be able to trust anything we see in case it's not legit."

"But… look at all the guns! And the cart! And the horses! Bass… this is great, right?" Jeremy asks.

Bass does look around. And then he sees… "…Miles?"

Ollie is kneeling beside the fallen horse. She looks… sad, but resigned, and won't quite meet their eyes.

Miles realises where Bass is looking, and moves to put a hand on his shoulder. "I had no choice," he says. "It had a badly broken leg, and I wasn't going to leave it to die in pain. So… I did it quickly."

"It… you can't fix their legs?" Bass asks, wavering. "Couldn't you, you know, splint it or something?" He's not sure why it's so important, but it feels like it is. Maybe because he's become rather attached to his own horse. And it's not like this horse made a conscious decision to work for some shithead.

"You can't," Ollie says, softly. "Maybe with loads of time and a top-notch vet… sometimes there's a chance. But out here, like this… it just wasn't going to happen."

"Oh." Bass… feels deflated. "I see."

"It was a mercy," Jeremy tries to say, wanting to convince himself, too. "But all the other horses are fine."

"Yeah. Sure. It's just a horse." Bass shrugs Miles' hand off and goes back to investigating their haul.

Miles stares after him but lets him go. He looks to Ollie after a moment, nodding in the direction of the other horses, which seem shaken but unhurt. "Round them up," he says. "We'll take them with us. Trade them for supplies in the next place we stop."

Ollie nods, getting slowly to her feet. She glances over at Jeremy. "Help me with them?" she asks.

"Sure," Jeremy says, glad of the distraction. He goes to the loose horse first.

Inside the cart, Bass is running his hands over the haul. It's massive. Much bigger than he expected. Much. "There's no way we can carry all this on us without a cart. Which would slow us down and make us more conspicuous. It's the fucking motherload, Miles… enough to arm three towns…"

"Exactly," Miles says, that grin returning as he climbs into the cart as well. "I say… we take what we can carry for ourselves, and the rest, we bring to the next town. We're going to need to start stockpiling weapons, so this can form the basis of our very first cache."

"This… is really happening, isn't it?" Bass asks, fingers drumming over an assault rifle that he knows will be someone's best friend in the world before long. "Shit. I mean. We're really getting somewhere. This has to hurt him. Has to hurt him badly."

"Oh yes," Miles agrees, his expression darkening. "This will hit that son of a bitch _right_ where it hurts. I only wish I could see his face when he finds out his precious weapons have been taken. When he realises we mean business."

"Still… this gives us an idea of the scope of his operation. I mean, this is only one of several shipments we know about." Bass whistles through his teeth. "How big _is_ this?"

"…I'd say damn big. The munitions he's got in here… this guy isn't messing around. And if all those supply runs on the sheet you decoded were like this… fuck… he's moved fast in ten months."

"What do you reckon he was before? Military, like us?" Bass pushes things back into place, steadying them off ready for when they set out. "He has to have had some kind of training. You just… don't suddenly become an organised war lord overnight."

"Military, or something similar," Miles agrees, moving to help. "Could have been police, maybe even a fed. But definitely someone who knows what they're doing."

"Why do you think we haven't seen more people like him? I mean… Faber's just sitting in Murton doing sweet FA. Don't you think it's odd? And the lack of anything from the government… it just… it feels wrong to me, is all."

"I know what you mean. Other people… I can sort of understand. Even most people with training wouldn't want to be running something like this. But the government… I don't know where the fuck they've gone. You'd think they'd be trying to set up systems and structures of their own, but if they are… there's no sign of it."

"Do you think… maybe they got taken out? I mean… it could have happened. We don't really know what went down. Maybe they bombed the shit out of all the key targets and that's why we don't have a leader any more?"

"Maybe," Miles answers. In truth… they have no idea, but something must have happened, for there to be just nothing left. No sign of the people who once ruled the entire US. "If they were coming back… you'd think it would have happened by now."

"We don't have any communication structures. How the hell would you even co-ordinate the US without phones and emails? I mean… no wonder it's all gone to shit."

"The whole country? Fuck, it would be… next to impossible, at least to start out. You'd need people taking messages back and forth. Riders. It could take weeks; months, to get the word of things out to the more distant states. And if the government has fallen… as it looks likely it has… there's no one to even put those systems in place."

"That's probably our answer, then. I mean… Franklin's been planning things so far in advance because he knows it will take an age for all the messages to filter through. Which will just be to our advantage, too…"

"Yes," Miles agrees. "All we need to do is get hold of another of his communiqués – there might even be some stashed in here, somewhere – and get you to decode it… and we're sitting on a list of targets."

"You want to look now, or when we get to the next place?"

"I don't think we should linger here. There's always the possibility that Franklin has other people in the area and they might come looking. I'd sooner move on and get out of the city. Find somewhere we can take our time."

"Sounds like a plan to me. We should probably get Ollie to drive the cart. We can each then take one of the free horses hitched to our own. You think we can make the next stop by sundown?"

Miles nods. "If we move quickly, yes. Going to be a little slower with this cart… but _so_ worth it."

"Right… come on then, let's break the news to our troops. The sooner we get gone the better." And the sooner we leave these bodies, too.

"Agreed," Miles says.

And they get to work. And through it all… he knows. He _knows_.

This is the start of something.

***

**CHICAGO, ILLINOIS**

**ONE YEAR AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

In the end, it's exactly one year – to the day – after the Blackout when they finally reach Chicago. There's plenty of settlements around it – more than there used to be, too – but the city itself is mostly deserted.

Which makes it a perfect place to lay low – doubly-so because, since Indianapolis, the fledgling Matheson-Monroe militia of four has hit at least half a dozen other convoys. They're getting very good at it, which means that, consequently, Franklin's people will be getting very unhappy about it.

They find an empty house amidst so many other empty houses, out in the suburbs. Somewhere quiet to set up a base of operations.

Miles still can't quite believe they're here at last. After so long – a lot longer than he ever anticipated – he's finally standing looking out over the suburbs and towards the city centre beyond; a mass of dark, lifeless skyscrapers.

He knows Ben won't be in the city any more, but nevertheless, the first port of call has to be his old house. Maybe… maybe, there might be some indication as to where he's gone. Some way to speed up the process of tracking him down.

The morning after they arrive, Miles and Bass leave Jeremy and Ollie at the house they've holed up in, still sorting it out for what could be a long stay; the horses tethered safely in the garden. On foot, the two men head out through the city, towards the house where Ben Matheson once lived.

"You know, I sort of don't believe we're here," Bass admits, when they're far enough away from their own house. "And it… it feels… weirder. Being somewhere we know. It's like… it's like going back to a memory, but wrong."

"I know what you mean," Miles says. "It's been so long… I almost wondered if we'd never get here. And now we are…"

He looks ahead at the city, the empty towers glittering in the morning sunlight, taking a deep breath.

"…I don't know what we're going to find when we get there," he concludes, a little softer, voice betraying the tiniest flicker of fear.

"Hey, man," Bass claps his shoulder and holds on. "Ben's smart. Smarter than us. He probably went to the library and got books on how to survive."

"I fucking hope so," Miles says, taking another deep breath. "'Cause if he's dead, I'll kill him."

There are very few things in the world that genuinely scare Miles, even now. But the thought of getting to that house and finding out something has happened to his brother… that would be one of the things.

"Then let's go find him. I doubt he bothered to read the book on hiding like a ninja, so we just have to find out where all the scientists go when the power goes off."

"I can't really see Ben as a ninja," Miles says, smiling just a little at Bass' attempt to cheer him up. "But stranger things have happened."

It takes them a while to make their way through the deserted streets, until they finally reach the neighbourhood where Ben once lived… and that feels even stranger. The house… just stands there, quiet and still, frozen in time.

Miles pauses just a second, then heads up to the front door. It's locked, but a couple of sharp kicks sees to that, and in they go.

"Hello?" Miles calls out, just in case. But there's no answer.

Bass has his hand resting on his sidearm just in case. He stands just behind Miles, respecting that this is Ben's home. Or was. "Sounds… empty…" he surmises.

"Yeah," Miles agrees, a little heavily, though in truth… this would not be a good place for Ben and his family to stay. It's better that they're not here.

He paces deeper inside. The house looks just like he remembers; so many things still in their usual places, like a little oasis of normalcy in this world gone mad. Slowly, he walks through into the front room, looking around. There's no one here, but more crucially, there's no indication that anything bad happened. No signs of any disturbance or… worse.

"Would… would he leave a note?" Bass asks, relieved that he can't see any bloodstains or broken furniture. So far, so good.

"That was my hope," Miles says, moving through into the kitchen, still looking over every surface. "Look for anything odd or… I don't know, specific. Something that might be a message."

Please, let there be something.

Bass goes to the table and starts rifling through the old, unpaid bills and unsorted letters. No. Nothing there. What about the bookshelf? Ben liked books, right? Did he have a favourite one, maybe? Bass stands in front of the rows upon rows of books, trying to look for one that's maybe out of place. Nothing jumps out at him, so he starts to pull them out and rifle through the pages.

Miles is just about to head back out of the kitchen when he glances at the front of the fridge. There's things pinned all over it – drawings by the kids, little messages and notes, even a few postcards, all held in place by various magnets… and as Miles looks them over, he realises that some of the brightly coloured letters spell out a word.

It's 'MILES.' And beside it, there's a postcard – but not one of the ones from distant cities. Not even the one, still here, that Miles sent during his last tour in Iraq. No. This one is a picture of Wrigley Field stadium in Chicago itself… which is where Miles and Ben met up the last time he was here, to go see a Cubs game.

"Bass…" Miles says, softly, as he slips the magnet aside and lifts the postcard up. He turns it… and there's writing on the reverse.

It says: "ALL ALIVE AND WELL. LEAVING THE CITY. SAFER. GLAD YOU ARE READING THIS. B."

Bass pads over quietly and presses in to read over Miles' shoulder. It feels like a ginormous weight is lifted from his chest. They survived. At least long enough to leave. They survived. He breaks into the widest, happiest smile known to mankind. "I told you!" he says, triumphantly. "That's your bro, Miles."

"Yeah," Miles agrees, voice a little shaky with relief. "Yeah. Thank _fuck_ …"

Pause. Deep breath. Focus. "All right. So. Now we have to find them. Which… _fuck_ … isn't going to be easy."

"He probably didn't even know where he was going, but he probably also didn't go far if he thought you'd find his message…?"

"I hope so. I guess… well, if it was me, I'd say one of the quieter settlements beyond the city. Of which there are a lot. But… that would be the place to start."

"Is there anywhere else he might have gone? Any… clues? I mean… you know he knew it was going to happen. Do you think maybe we could work out how or why?"

"…We could try the university," Miles suggests. "If we can get into his old lab… there might be some clue there."

"Sure. We might as well, because we're here." Then he laughs. "And I've never really been to it."

"I did once," Miles says. "Way back. Ben was giving some special lecture on… I don't know, something… and it was just after we got home from Afghanistan the second time, and he talked me into coming so we could meet up. It might as well have been in Chinese for all the sense it made, though."

"Did you find a hot chick to hit on?" Bass teases. "I bet you did."

Miles laughs. "Nah, they were all way too nerdy. It was like a whole room full of Bens. And girl-Bens."

"I'm surprised you didn't try to bang one anyway. I mean, a girl-Ben." He bumps shoulders. "We were terrible back then."

"Dude, way too triggery," Miles points out, with a little fake shudder. "But. Yeah. We really were. Especially after the tours, oh fuck…"

"I don't know if it was just being desperate, or trying to fuck until it felt right or…" A shrug. "Thank god we grew up."

Miles grips Bass' arm. "Yeah. Tell me about it. This Blackout isn't good for much… but at least it was good for something."

"Come on. I'm not fucking you in your brother's old house. I love you, man, but not like that." Bass tilts his head back to the door. "Let's get going."

"Damn right you're not," Miles agrees. Because some things… you just don't do. "Way too weird. Besides, we should head on down to the university so I can feel intellectually inferior some more." But he's grinning.

"We could totally have sex there," Bass points out. "That wouldn't be weird at all."

"…Yeah, it really would," Miles says, giving him an arched look. "Although it would be _less_ weird, so I might not mind so much…"

"…how far away is it, again?" Bass licks his lips. Deliberately. "I'm sure by the time we get there, you will be convinced…"

***

They search, and they search, for over three weeks, scouring the countryside and the villages around Chicago, desperately looking for some sign of Ben or his family. They make friends with some of the locals, too – their primary focus isn't on training now, but they lose nothing by building up more contacts.

And one day, it seems to pay off. It's mid-afternoon, and Miles and Bass are in the house they've all been living in, pouring over a collection of maps, trying to work out where to turn their attention next. Jeremy and Ollie, meanwhile, are out, following up on leads of their own.

That's when there's a knocking at the door – a heavy, firm knocking. Miles looks around. They're not expecting anyone. He headtilts at the door, then gets up and goes over to it, hand on his sidearm – caution being sensible – as he opens the door.

Beyond is a man they've been in contact with a lot over the last couple of weeks – Liam Calder, who has been trying to help with the search for Ben. At his side is a second man, hands tied behind his back.

Miles' eyebrows go up. "Calder?" he says. "What's going on?"

Calder flashes him a grin. He looks pleased with himself. "Brought you a little something. This guy…-" – he gives the bound man an accusatory prod – "-…is one of Franklin's people."

Bass is hovering right behind Miles, his own hand on his holster, ready to draw. When he sees Calder and the prisoner, he breaks into an incredulous smile. "Oh, is he now? How did you find him?"

The prisoner steadfastly refuses to make eye-contact with any of them.

"Some of my guys picked him up on the edge of our village," Calder tells them. "He was hovering about near the dojo, and one of my people swears they saw him near the munitions store earlier in the day. When we went to ask questions… things got heated."

Calder grins again. "So here I am. I figured you'll be able to get more out of him than I could. And you know how I love to bring you things."

Miles nods approvingly. "Nice work. We'll take it from here – but I'd have your people step up security in the village. There's no telling whether he came here alone or not."

"Yes. And change your routines. Don't leave anything up to chance," Bass adds. "Who knows how many people have been snooping around..?"

Bass walks closer to the prisoner, eyeing him quizzically. He's a well-built man, but nothing about him screams anything other than 'brute'. The way he holds his shoulders, for one. Not a solider. Definitely not a soldier. He takes the man by the elbow and guides him into the living room. "Well… this is going to be interesting."

"Isn't it just..?" Miles says, with an edge to his tone that's clearly meant for their special guest.

"Oh, one other thing," Calder adds. "When we searched him, we found this." And he holds out an envelope, sealed with Franklin's emblem, still unopened. "Figured it might be useful too."

"I'd say so," Miles agrees, taking it. Whatever it contains will likely be encoded… but he's sure Bass will be able to make light work of that.

"Glad to help. I'll head on back," Calder says, giving them both a nod. "Let me know how things turn out."

"Count on it," Miles promises – and Calder heads out, shutting the door behind him.

If they're going to do this… they need somewhere suitable. Miles considers it a moment, and then says, "We'll take him down to the garage. Seems the best place to do it."

"All right. Yes." Bass' eyes flit down to the thick carpet underfoot. He doesn't really want to get blood all over that. This house is rather nice and has room for the horses. It would be a shame to spoil it.

"I'm not going to tell you anything," their captive insists. "So you might as well kill me now."

"Oh, a deathwish already? Miles, that's not a good sign…" Bass guides the man through the kitchen and through the door into the spacious but messy garage.

"It really isn't," Miles agrees, snatching up a pair of handcuffs as he follows Bass down into the garage. "But I can work with it."

The centre of the garage is wide and clear – if the people who once lived here had a car, it wasn't anywhere close by when the power went off. Miles drags a chair down from the kitchen and drops it in the centre of the room with an ominous clunk – then helps Bass push their prisoner into the chair, replacing the ropes binding his wrists with the handcuffs, to hold him more firmly.

And then… he looks over at Bass. One look, wordless, yet laden with the crucial question… how do you want to play this?

But he knows, of course. They both do.

Bass reads every little nuance in Miles' eyes. It's why they work together so well. It's why they've always worked together so well. His eyes slide slowly over to their prisoner then back. An almost imperceptible nod. This is not the first time, and he knows he's giving permission for Miles to fall back into the patterns that have always worked so very, very well.

Bass stands behind the man, hands on his shoulders, keeping him pinned down.

"I don't know anything useful," the man goes on. "I'm just a messenger. You're not supposed to shoot the messenger."

"Who said anything about shooting you?" Miles asks. "This'd be over far too quickly that way. No… if you're one of Franklin's people, I'd much prefer to take my time with you."

He cracks his knuckles. It's overly-obvious, but he wants to test out how savvy their prisoner is. "You got a name?" he asks.

The man's eyes flicker down to Miles' hand before he can stop them, but then he sets his jaw and nods at him.

"…this is when you're supposed to tell him," Bass points out.

Even that little flicker is enough to get a reaction out of Miles. He's wound, he's on edge, and he's spent months following in the wake of what these sons of bitches have been doing without ever quite getting the chance to talk to one up close.

And now he is? The anger is almost overwhelming. He hides it all-too-well, though – directing it into a single punch to their prisoner's jaw, hard enough to hurt, but not enough to knock him over.

"If you're planning on playing it like this, believe me, it isn't going to end well for you," he points out, tone cold as ice.

Bass makes sure that the man doesn't rock too far under the punch, dragging him back upright. Holding on tighter.

The captive rolls his jaw around, and it's clear from the expression on his face that he's strongly contemplating his options. "Carter," he says, at last. "My name is Sergeant Carter."

Miles sighs, and cracks Carter across the jaw again, remembering what Lieutenant Hanson used to tell him, over and over, back during his own basic training. _Your rank is not your name. They are not the same thing. Get it right._

Plus, hitting the guy is surprisingly therapeutic.

"Unless you had _very_ cruel parents, I'd say that's only half right," Miles says. "But. Carter will do. What exactly are you doing way out here, Carter? This isn't Franklin's territory."

Bass is fighting back a smirk. Apparently all those beastings came in useful after all. But he doesn't want Miles to see him nearly laughing.

Carter shakes his head as if trying to clear the buzzing. "I never said I was one of Franklin's men," he points out. "You just assumed."

"You know, it's only going to be worse for you if you keep being obstructive," Bass says, reasonably.

Miles shakes his head, but instead of hitting Carter again straight away, he flashes the envelope at him – the envelope Calder gave them, marked with Franklin's seal. "So this is what, then?" he asks. "A souvenir? Don't insult my intelligence. You're a messenger for Franklin's people and I want to know what you're doing near Chicago."

Carter shrugs. "I just deliver messages. Doesn't mean I know why or who for. I get paid to travel, so I travel."

"So who paid you this time?" Bass demands.

"Yeah, _Sergeant_ ," Miles pushes, closing in again. "'Cause from where I'm standing, this seems pretty clear-cut."

He flashes a look to Bass, just enough to warn him what's coming before he acts. And then he grabs hold of Carter, yanks him upright and punches him furiously hard in the midsection before slamming him back down into the chair again.

Bass lets go of Carter for the abuse, then has his hands straight back on him when Miles pushes him down. It's half to keep him upright, half to be reassuring. Or threatening. Or both at once.

At the punch, Carter wheezes desperately for breath. It hurts rather a lot, and it's hard to think past the sudden lack of oxygen. "Some guy! He…" wheeze… "…was tallish. Short, dark hair. White. Skinny. Just some dude, okay!"

Miles gives him an arched look. "'Some dude,'" he repeats. "Really? That's what you're going with? Do you want to get beaten into the floor? Because you're going the right way about it."

"I'm a messenger!" Carter says, fire flashing in his eyes. "The only stuff I know about Franklin is what everyone knows!"

"Such as?" Bass prompts.

"Such as…" His tongue flickers out over his lips, tasting the blood there. "Such as he was a Philly beat cop, who was in Pittsburgh when the lights went out. Such as he has a huge army. Such as he's the only person taking control and making sense of this mess…"

Miles' eyes go utterly dark. "'Taking control'?" he echoes. "'Making _sense_ '? Is that how he justifies the frequent _rape and murder_?"

He draws his arm back again and hits Carter furiously hard, the rage suddenly burning anew in his blood.

Bass struggles to hold Carter still through this, and to be fair he's not feeling particularly kind himself, either. Everything Miles is saying is true. They aren't organising a mini rebellion for nothing, after all.

The man spits a mouthful of blood to the floor, keeping his head hung low and facing away. "I've done none of those things," he says, voice scratchy. "And who gave you the right to kidnap and torture me?"

"Your boss did," Miles growls, "when he sent you out here. You're an enemy soldier, Carter, and you work for a man I would _sorely_ prefer was sitting right here in your place. So damn right I'll do what I please – and if you're very lucky, when I'm done, you can crawl back to that murdering psychopath whose banner you're pledged to and suggest a few changes to the operational model. If you have the balls."

Except that there's no way you're getting out of this alive. But. No need to make that obvious just yet.

"I'm a _messenger_ ," Carter repeats yet again, glowering up at Miles. "I'm not a soldier. I'm a civilian. Christ, weren't there rules about not injuring civilians? And even more to the point: _not torturing them_?"

Bass' fingers knead the man's shoulders. "There were also rules about not raping, killing, stealing and generally being a dick," he says. As levelly as he can.

Miles' eyes flash up to Bass' in agreement again. "Damn right there were," he says, looking back down at Carter. "And so long as you're pledged to Franklin, _Sergeant_ , I'll treat you as one of his soldiers regardless of whether you claim to be. And trust me, even when I beat you into a bloody pulp on this floor, I will still have _all_ of the moral high ground here."

"You guys are fucked up," the man says, his eyes narrowing in anger. "I hope Franklin's men _do_ find you. And kill you."

Bass braces for the impact, holding him stiller so it hurts more.

Miles is grateful for that. Grateful because it means he can lay into their prisoner with alarming force, punching him twice in the stomach and then smacking him across the jaw viciously hard.

He's so far past seeing red, it's like the world has gone black. Expression deadly, his hand goes to his hip, drawing his knife with a quick, sharp _shiiik_.

"You're going to pay for that, you psychotic little–"

Which is when there's a sudden commotion outside – the sound of doors banging open and hurried footsteps, followed by Ollie's voice. "Miles! Miles!"

The sudden interruption startles Bass, and suddenly a wave of guilt passes over him. He'd gotten caught up in the moment and thought nothing of the knife Miles had drawn, nor what it meant. But Ollie's innocent voice cutting through makes him worry what he would think if he saw them. Bass puts a hand up and shakes his head at Miles. No. Not now. Wait.

Carter is coughing and wheezing and hissing at the pain in his stomach and in his face. He's doubled up as far as the chair will allow, just grateful for the interruption.

"You stay _right_ there," Miles growls at him, and then gestures for Bass to follow him up out of the garage and into the kitchen, then through it to the main hallway where Jeremy and Ollie are now standing.

He doesn't even think twice about how he must look, knife still in hand and streaked with blood that clearly isn't his own, sweat tingeing his hairline and eyes still dark with a rage that won't fade easily.

"There you are!" Ollie exclaims. "Miles… I met this guy, and… oh, you don't need the boring bits, but the important thing is… _I know where Ben is_!"

Bass comes to an abrupt halt, staring at Ollie incredulously. "What? Where?"

Jeremy, meanwhile, is staring at Miles. "…and… did we interrupt something?" His eyes trail over to Bass who looks distinctly un-bloodied and un-hurt. And neither of them are undressed.

"There's a village way round on the far side of the city," Ollie explains. "They call it Elms Grove – whole place was built after the Blackout. The guy I spoke to does trading runs all the way up there and he's sure he's met a guy called Ben who matches your brother's description. This is it, Miles, I'm sure of it."

Miles stares a little, the words somehow filtering through his mind. Is this it? Really it?

"Then we need to go after him," he says. "But… there's something you need to know, first." He gestures behind himself with the knife, back in the direction of the kitchen. "We've got a guy in the garage. Calder brought him in. He's one of Franklin's people. We've been… questioning him."

"Oh," Jeremy says. "That explains things. Have… have you found anything out?"

"Not much," Bass admits. "But really… Ollie… your news is _so_ much better." He steps closer and delivers a friendly punch to the arm. "Way to go, kiddo."

Ollie grins. "See, told you I was useful," she says, blushing just a little and trying to hide it.

"I'm not done with him yet, though," Miles says. "He's dicking me around, but I'm confident the guy's actually met Franklin in person and I reckon that…-"

"Nobody move or I slit his throat!"

Carter bursts out of nowhere and rapidly has his handcuffed wrists around Jeremy's neck, tugging backwards. A stolen box-cutter pressed into the soft space under his jaw. "I mean it!"

Jeremy lets out an involuntary whimper, his hands coming up to wrap around Carter's arms, vainly trying to tug them down.

"Easy… easy…" Bass says, approaching slowly with his palms open.

Ollie gives a squeak of shock as the man bursts in, backing off and trying to stay out of the way, but she's so scared for Jeremy that she can't go far.

The look in Miles' eyes, meanwhile, would incinerate lesser men, and a flare of something he doesn't have time to think on rages up through his chest. "Put it down and let him go," he says, voice oddly soft and level.

"So you can torture and murder me? I don't think so. Everyone move away from the door and let me leave," Carter insists. "And I might not cut him up at all."

"You wouldn't get five minutes away from here before we stopped you," Bass argues. "Put down the knife. We can talk this through…"

"Yes!" Jeremy squeaks, his voice strained to breaking. "Talking good!"

But Miles… has other ideas. He doesn't say another word. Doesn't give anything away. One second he's standing still, and the next, he draws his gun – having made sure to move the knife to his off-hand in the earlier commotion – raises it, points it at Carter, and fires.

There's very, very little room for error. The man's head is right next to Jeremy's and he can't miss. Can't.

But he knows he won't. And he doesn't. The crack of the gunshot cuts the air, and the bullet hits Carter right between the eyes.

For a moment, Carter doesn't move. The equilibrium of his stance holds him, because the force of the bullet into his head is more or less the same as the recoil in Miles' hand. For a moment, Jeremy's convinced he's been shot and that the pain is going to kick in any moment and then maybe he will just die.

But then gravity takes over and Carter slumps down and back, the cuffed wrists around Jeremy's neck pulling him inexorably down with the man's full weight.

And then the moment breaks and Bass is running over and grabbing the dead man and hefting him up and moving the wrists from around Jeremy's throat. Jeremy gasps, breathless, and stares up in shock at Miles. Who has saved him. Again.

"…damn it all to fuck…" Miles mutters, under his breath. He could really have done with not having to shoot the first good lead on Franklin they've had in weeks… but then, he could also have done with the first good lead on Franklin they've had in weeks not attacking one of his people.

 _His_ people. No one fucking touches his people. No one.

"…Sorry," he says, slipping his knife away as he moves over to Jeremy, offering him a hand. "I needed to act fast. I didn't have time to warn you."

"…why are you apologising?" Jeremy asks, taking the hand and letting himself be pulled back upright. He's shaking. He's shaking badly. "You just saved my life." Pause. "Again."

Bass drops Carter's body unceremoniously. He's also feeling shaken. "Good… shot," is all he can say.

Miles doesn't let go of Jeremy straight away. He knows… sometimes the grounding helps. "Well… you're welcome," he says. "I knew I should have knocked that little fuck unconscious before we left him."

"I…" Jeremy glances down at the dead body. "…I ruined your interrogation, didn't I?"

"Don't be stupid," Bass joins in. "It was sloppy of us. It… if anything it's our fault, not yours."

"Yeah," Miles has to agree. "But he had one of Franklin's communiqués on him… so don't chalk it up to a loss. Besides… the guy had it coming."

"Ollie… you okay, man?" Bass asks, realising that the kid is still pale and hiding in the corner.

"…Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Ollie manages, trying not to let on how quite so terrifying that was. She moves in closer and grips Jeremy's arm – when Miles finally lets him go.

"Come on, you need to tell me more about this guy you spoke to," Miles says, changing the subject. "And Bass needs to look at this communiqué." He glances over at Bass. "Can you do it whilst we talk, or do you need to get the string out?" Just a hint of a grin.

"I can do it without string," Bass sighs, sounding exasperated. "You go talk family."

Miles pats Bass on the shoulder, then pulls out the envelope and hands it to him. "I hope to fuck there's something useful in there," he says. "I want that son of a bitch to hurt a whole lot more than usual."

But. He also has to focus. They move through into the living room – which also offers a good excuse for Miles to get Jeremy to sit down – and then he turns his attention to Ollie. "All right. Tell me everything."

She takes a deep breath. "OK. So. This trader I met, he does supply runs all the way north of the city and up into Wisconsin. He says there's a few new villages up there, all built post-Blackout, and that he's traded with a guy named Ben, who has a wife and two kids."

"How far away?" Jeremy asks. He's looking a bit strung-out, his hands fidgeting nervously over a placemat.

"A good day's ride," Ollie answers. "And that'd be pushing it hard. The place – Elms Grove – is quite remote. Seems like exactly where you'd want to live if you didn't want to be found. And… apparently Franklin's people have never been seen round there, so it's safe from them, too."

"And you know where it is?" Miles asks.

"Yeah," Ollie answers. "The trader told me the route he takes, and I reckon I could get us there, with a map."

"Kid, you're brilliant," Miles says, reaching to clap Ollie on the shoulder. "Seriously. I owe you."

"It… it will be nice to meet this mysterious Ben and Rachel at last," Jeremy says. "But it feels sort of… weird. I mean. It's been the goal all along, and now… and now we found him?" He rubs a hand over his arm, trying to stop it jittering. "But it's cool. I'm happy for you, Miles. I am."

"Thanks," Miles says. "But… this isn't the only goal anymore, is it? Once I find Ben and his family, once I make sure they're somewhere safe… it doesn't stop this thing with Franklin."

He looks horribly conflicted. This whole trip was about finding Ben, making sure Ben was safe, and now… it's about something else, too. Something else that Miles can't walk away from.

"Yeah. Yeah I guess. We still have to take him down…" Jeremy is trying very hard not to look too relieved that Miles isn't done with them yet. It would be… tasteless. If honest.

"Exactly," Miles replies. "We've started building something – all four of us – and I'm set on seeing it through. I want this country to be safe, not just for Ben and Rachel, but for all the other families who don't have anyone coming after them."

"But what do we do when we take him down?"

This is a good question. Miles… hasn't actually thought that far ahead. He's got as far as 'Ben needs to be safe,' 'we need to be safe' and 'the world needs not to be full of murdering rapist maniacs' but beyond that… he isn't sure.

"Honestly?" he says. "I don't know. If we're in control of a militia – an actual militia – then we won't just be able to walk away from that. We may need to… keep running things. Keep the peace. I don't know. But whatever happens… the four of us, and Ben and his family… I will keep us all safe."

"I know that," Jeremy agrees. "You're the best at keeping us safe." From insane murderers trying to shoot me, he thinks.

"Okay I've got good news and bad news," Bass announces, as he wanders over to the table. His eyes still roving over the communiqué.

Miles looks up at once. "Start with the good news," he says, eager to know what the message contains.

"The good news is that I've worked it out, and that we seem to have the orders for a local garrison to expect a _very_ important visit – probably from Franklin himself – and it details times, dates and enough of a path to be useable for an ambush…"

Miles actually leaps to his feet, hand on Bass' arm, looking down at the message. "Fuck, seriously? This could be what we've been waiting for – the chance to take this son of a bitch out of play permanently. But… wait. What's the bad news?"

Bass looks a little pale. "We don't have much time. He's due to arrive in two days."

This makes Miles sink back down. "Fuck."

If Franklin is going to be here, they have to go after him. But… Ben. They know where Ben is. Miles needs to get to his brother and he also needs to take down Franklin. And yes, Ben can most likely wait a couple more days, but… but. Miles wants to get to him. Needs to get to him.

"…Fuck," he breathes, again. "If that's right, then… then we'll have to go after him straight away…"

Bass bites his lip, deep in thought. "No," he says. "No. You need to find Ben."

"I know that," Miles replies. "I do. But… we can't miss a chance like this. If we take Franklin out now, it could save us _months_ of fighting further down the line."

Bass puts his hand on his lover's arm. "You need to find your brother. We've been looking for him for over a year, Miles. I… I can take down Franklin. I can do it, and you can go find Ben."

Miles stares up at him, eyes terribly conflicted. "What? I can't leave you to do that. I can't just… walk away when you need me the most."

"It's okay," Bass reassures him. "We're a team. And this is your brother, Miles. I know how much this means to you. Let me do this for you. Let me take one for the team."

"Bass… this guy's a maniac," Miles insists. "I can't just send you off to kill him. What if something goes wrong? If we're taking him down… we need to throw everything we've got into doing it. All four of us."

"With this intel, I can cut him off somewhere. We have those rifles Faber gave us. I can lay an ambush and shoot him before anyone knows what's happening. You know I'm good enough, and that's the end of it." Bass puts the instructions down on the table with an air of finality. "…Let me do this."

For a long moment, Miles doesn't answer, and then he takes a deep breath and looks up again. "All right," he says. "All right. Yes. If there's anyone who can do this, it's you. We…"

He can't believe he's saying this. "…We split up. You take out Franklin, I find Ben. And then… we meet up. And work out what comes next."

Bass steps back, nodding in agreement and relief. It's what needs doing, he knows, but it's still… a lot to take in. "I'll take Jeremy. Ollie knows where to go and Jeremy's been training on the rifle with me."

"Yes, sure," Jeremy agrees at once.

Ollie isn't sure whether to look nervous or relieved. "Sounds sensible to me," she says, trying to keep her voice level. "I know how to find Elms Grove. If Ben's there, I can get you to him."

"…Then it's settled," Miles agrees, a little heavily. "We'll pick a rendezvous spot out in the forest. Somewhere secluded. We'll set out first thing in the morning, and we'll meet back there in two days. That should give you enough time to intercept Franklin, and us enough time to reach Ben."

"…Maybe first, though, we should do something about the guy in the hall?" Jeremy asks, suddenly remembering how they even know Franklin is coming in the first place.

"Good point," Miles concedes. He headtilts back towards the garage. "I'd better find a shovel…"

***

Bass is trying very hard not to turn around in the saddle to catch another lingering glimpse of Miles and Ollie as the other two ride off from the meeting point, taking Humvee along with them. They've been parted briefly before, it's true. They don't spend all day every day in one another's company… but this plan entails them being apart for two days and Bass is almost regretting he'd suggested it.

"It's going to be fine, Bass," Jeremy says, riding Prius a little closer to him.

"I'm not worried about it," Bass lies. "We've got the advantage on him for once." But Bass isn't sure that's entirely what Jeremy was trying to convince him of.

"I know that," Jeremy goes on. "With your crack shot and my charming company, Franklin doesn't really stand a chance."

"Did you make sure you prepped your rifle?"

"Twice."

The horses trot casually along. They don't have as far to go as Miles and Ollie, but they still have to make good time to be ready for the ambush early tomorrow. Bass absently strokes Lambo's neck.

"I just feel like I should be with him," Bass finally admits. "We've been looking for Ben for a year. It's been – like – our main goal. It's why we left Parris Island to begin with. And it also feels like he should be here, with us. Taking out this bastard. It's just… really bad timing, is all."

"I think you made the right decision."

Bass turns to stare at Jeremy. "You do?"

"Yeah. Franklin's important, but family is family. And Miles needed to know that someone he trusts is going to take care of Franklin. He needed you to let him go, because he'd feel honour-bound to stay if you didn't."

Bass knows all of this is true, but it is still hard to listen to. "Let's… let's just get the bastard. Because the sooner we do, the sooner we can all just find somewhere nice to settle down with Ben, Rachel and the kids and… I don't know… farm or something."

"Sounds good to me."

***

There's only one place on the route that makes sense. Bass has read through the communiqué a hundred times to make sure he got every last detail right. The path isn't completely described, but it does tell the garrison near Chicago which entry to expect him by, when, and how it would be a coach with four outriders. With maps and riding up and down, Bass has found the one place that they are guaranteed to have to pass through, because it's right after the only bridge in a twenty-mile radius that's also passable by a cart.

The place he chooses is on a bluff, just above where the track from the bridge broadens out to allow for diversions. It does mean he can't bottleneck them into place or barricade them in like they did in Indianapolis, but you have to work with what life gives you.

"See," Bass says, shuffling around on his belly and sighting through the rifle. "This gives us elevation and cover. They won't be able to come after us immediately, and we've got better vantage of them."

"But they could run," Jeremy points out.

Bass smiles. The man is learning after all. "You never get the 'perfect' scenario. Warfare is all about minimising risk and maximising opportunity. But it's not about refusing to act unless it's perfect. Or we'd never get anything done."

Pushing up from his crouch, Bass slings the rifle back over his shoulder and peers down the steep incline. "No way they'd get horses up here. They'd have to go further down or up to follow us, or attempt it on foot."

"Unless this is Skyrim."

"As we've already established, Jeremy, just because your gay horse on a computer game can walk up walls and swim through lava pools it doesn't mean that's real."

"There were no lava pools in Skyrim." Jeremy is sulking.

"Whatever. There's no elves or any of that in reality, too."

Jeremy does smile, though. "All right. I'll remember that one. I knew I was forgetting something."

They walk back the short distance to where they've hitched the horses and made the first start of a temporary camp. It's only one night, and they don't want to make their presence here obvious in case of Franklin's scouts. But the tent is up and the small fire is ready to be lit.

"When did you work out you were a sniper?" Jeremy asks, dropping himself down on his little camping stool.

"When they gave me bigger and better guns and asked me to shoot further and smaller targets."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I!" But Jeremy looks so dejected that Bass has to relent. "It wasn't long after I finished my training. They have you doing all sorts of shit to work out where your talents lie. Like driving tanks and flying choppers and stuff. I wasn't the best they'd ever seen, but I had enough of a talent to be useful at it."

"What was Miles good at?"

"Hmm… well… if I had to pick one thing? It would probably be leadership. He's got a very good head on his shoulders when it comes to stressful situations. He just sort of… sees what has to be done and does it without thinking. And he's good at making people follow him."

"I had noticed that." Jeremy's expression is knowing.

Bass laughs and lies on his back. His arms reach up and under his head as a pillow as he stares up at the fading light of the day. "He's always been like that." His tongue flicks out over his lips as he thinks back through the years. "Not just for me, but I've followed him more than anyone. I don't regret a single thing, though."

"What are we going to do when we find Ben?"

"I… I don't know. If we – when we – kill Franklin, I guess we'll just find somewhere safe to stay. Maybe sometimes we'll go out and find other towns that need help in survival skills. To stop us getting bored."

"You don't want to see if Ben can turn the power back on, like Miles said he might?"

"I… I guess I'd want to ask if it was possible. I mean, it would fix a lot of shit. It would make life easier again. I dunno, man, it's just… wouldn't he have already done it if he could? And why the hell did it go out in the first place?"

"It would be nice to know the answers."

"Maybe we'll get them tomorrow night. Stranger things have happened."

"Yeah. But not much."

"Miles thought we should try to fix what Franklin's done wrong. After we kill him, I mean."

"He does? Yeah. I guess he does. That's Miles for you: he doesn't like to sit back and let people suffer."

"Someone has to…"

"Take control?"

"Yeah. And I'd rather it was Miles than _Franklin_."

"Me too."

***

Miles and Ollie ride for much of the day, heading up from their rendezvous point and deeper into the forest. They don't talk a great deal – not out of hostility, but more from an awareness that everything is finally coming to a head. That this could very well be the day they've all been waiting for, one way or another.

But for Ollie… there's more to it than that. She's worried. This is the first time she's been off somewhere long-term with someone who isn't Jeremy. With someone who still doesn't… know. And though she's sure she's safe with Miles… it doesn't change the horrible fear about what will happen if he realises…

She spends all day trying not to think about it. All day wondering how best to deal with the fact that she's got to share a tent with the man.

It's growing late by the time they make camp – it will be tomorrow before they reach the village where Ollie's intel suggests Ben is now living – and Miles doesn't want to get there under cover of darkness. Better to wait until morning.

He's edgy. That much is obvious. After they've eaten, Miles sits for some time beside the campfire, not feeling a bit like sleep. What if this is it? What if, tomorrow, they really do find Ben? He's spent an entire year trying to get here; a year that has changed _everything_. And Ben… Ben knows things. He might have answers. Answers about what really happened. Answers… about whether the lights will ever come back on.

Ollie seizes on the opportunity to go off to sleep earlier. Long before Miles comes into the tent, she's ensconced in her sleeping bag. Safe. Hidden. But…

But. The fear won't go. What if he finds out? What if he's not as understanding as Jeremy? What if..? What if..?

She eventually drifts to sleep in a haze of cold terror, exhausted by it. Lost to it.

***

In the middle of the night, Miles is awoken by screaming. He jumps up all at once, reaching for his gun in the darkness before he's even had a chance to process that the screaming is Ollie. But there's no one else there – no attackers or bandits trying to jump them in the night.

A dream, then? The younger man is still screaming, thrashing about, and Miles pushes out of his own sleeping bag, reaching over to grab hold of Ollie and pull him in, trying to shake him out of it.

"Hey," he says, "hey, wake up, it's all right."

Ollie screams and hits him, and then goes still, eyes blinking open, staring around as if completely unsure of what's real and what isn't.

"What… what… I… fuck, Miles, did I..?"

"You were having a nightmare," Miles points out, a little redundantly. "Are you all right?"

"I… I… I was just…"

The younger man's bright green eyes are wide with terror, and he stares at Miles for a long moment as if contemplating something – and then in a burst of movement he's up and out of the tent, racing out into the dark.

Fuck. What the fuck is going on? Miles leaps up. "Ollie. Ollie!"

He hurries outside, to find that – thankfully – Ollie hasn't gone far, and is now leaning against a tree, sobbing softly, and still shaking visibly. Miles, having learned his lesson, doesn't go too close this time, sitting slowly down on a log a little distance away, near the mostly burned-out campfire.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, carefully.

He isn't stupid. Four overseas tours in warzones are more than enough to teach a man what the symptoms of PTSD look like, and Miles is only annoyed he didn't spot it before. The fact of the matter is… they know less about Ollie's recent past than might have been expected, and now Miles can't shake the thought that there's a reason for this.

Ollie drops down onto her knees beside the tree, still not looking at Miles. No. No. She doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't ever want to talk about it.

Miles sighs. He doesn't want to push, but… he knows there's something going on, and he needs to know what it is. "Look," he says, as carefully as he can. "I think… you need to tell me, because we both know… we both know there's a lot you haven't said yet. Isn't there? I didn't push before because you're a good person, a good friend, and because you have a calming power over Jeremy that borders on the insane and frankly scares me a little. But… you need to tell me, Ollie. You need to stop running and tell me the truth."

There's a long silence. A long, heavy, difficult silence. Ollie can feel the weight of every second, pressing down on her like… like…

She looks back at Miles, finally, face tear-streaked and pale. "I can't," she whispers. "I _can't_."

" _Oliver_ ," Miles says. "Tell me what happened."

"…Olivia," she replies, voice barely more than a whisper. "My name's Olivia. I'm a girl, Miles."

The world stops. The world stops and, even though he doesn't actually know anything more yet… suddenly Miles understands. And it knocks him sick.

"…You're a girl?" he repeats, unnecessarily. Understanding and… wanting to guide her through explaining it. "But you've been pretending to be a boy all this time?"

She nods. "I had to," she whispers. "Miles… I'm sorry, I…"

"…Jeremy knows, doesn't he?" Miles interrupts, but not harshly, as other things start to make sense too. The way they are around each other. The way… they're so close, yet never seem interested in hooking up. The way he protects her, as if he understands more than anyone else.

Ollie nods again. "Yes. But he's the only one. I had to tell him. We shared a tent for weeks, Miles. And I… fuck… I needed to tell someone… I…"

"It's all right," Miles tells her. "But… you're going to have to tell me what happened, Ollie."

She looks down. "I can't," she whispers, and fuck, but she's still shaking so hard, curled into herself. "I _can't_ , Miles."

"Olivia," he says, softly – and the name feels odd, still. "You've waited long enough."

The silence endures again, for a drawn-out moment, and then Ollie turns a little more. "All right," she says. "All right. But… but… it isn't easy, and this part… I've never told anyone this part. Not even Jeremy. Even though… I think he guessed. He never says anything, but I think he guessed."

Miles just nods. "Take your time."

"I… OK, OK… I…" Ollie finally looks up at him, eyes hollow. "My parents didn't die in a car crash before the Blackout," she says. "And my brother… Rob… he isn't waiting for me in Harrisburg. He's dead too. They're all dead. They…"

A pause, shorter this time. If she's going to do this… she has to just do it. "I told you, back in Allentown, that all those horses the bandits had came from a riding school further up the river. I know that because it’s where I lived, Miles. That riding school belonged to my family. And for six months after the Blackout, we carried on living there just fine. It wasn't easy – you know what it was like when the lights first went out – but we were in the countryside, away from the big cities, and… we were fine. We were fine."

Fuck. Fuck, she misses them so much.

"And… then… one day, the men came. Bandits. A whole bunch of them. I remember hearing the shouts and… and the gunshots and… fuck, I remember my mom screaming at us to run… I…"

The world is just… tunnelled, now. Like it's all gone quiet.

"…I was in the house, with Rob, I… I think we'd been talking about something. I don't know. I don't remember. We saw them coming across the fields and he grabbed me and pulled me further into the house, and… and… I heard them kick the door in and…"

Even Miles can't not act now. He moves closer to her – carefully, slowly – kneeling at her side and gently taking her hand. She looks almost terrified by the gesture, but doesn’t pull away.

"I heard more screaming. My mom again, and then my dad, and… gunshots… and… then they were inside and coming at us. Rob shouted at me to run, said he'd hold them off, and I didn't want to run and leave him but I did and… that's when I realised they'd gotten into the house from the back, too. I ran right into them, Miles. I… they… There was a guy. I think he must have been the one in charge. He grabbed hold of me, pulled me away… I remember Rob shouting and shouting but there were too many of them, and… and… the guy… the leader… he dragged me into a room… it was mine, my room, and he… he…"

Ollie breaks into soft sobs. Miles holds her hand tighter, partly for the support, and partly as some small outlet for the rage that burns up in his chest when he realises she's going to say precisely what he fears.

"…he threw me down and he… he… Miles, I'd never even been with anyone before, and he…"

She can't say the word. Miles knows he's going to have to. Knows… it has to be said, even if only once. "…He raped you."

Ollie nods, biting her lip. "Yeah. He… made them bring Rob in. Made him… made him _watch_ … and at the end… at the end… he shot him. Whilst he was still… whilst… he…"

She collapses into sobs again, unable even to look up for a long, long moment. And when she does, Miles is sure that the look in Ollie's eyes will haunt him forever. But there's still a huge unanswered question here.

"How did you escape?" he asks.

"When… when it was over, the guy, he… he pulled out a knife," Ollie whispers. "He was going to… to… but someone shouted. Called him 'sir.' Said they needed him quick. So he went over to the door to speak to them and just… just left me. And I… I was lying there, and I… fuck, Miles, I was so scared, and then I saw… I… I had this collection of samurai swords, on the wall. I was so into all that stuff back then, and this… this _wave_ just came over me and I leapt up and grabbed one… the wakizashi… and when that _bastard_ turned back I slashed at him. Slashed across his face. He screamed – there was blood everywhere – and in the commotion… I ran. I just had the sword in my hand and I ran. I don't know how I got out… I… I hardly even remember it… I just remember bursting outside and seeing the stables on fire and… I just ran. Into the forest. I lay in the bushes for hours, trying not to cry, trying not to make a sound. It got dark and I was so cold and… so alone, and I just… lay there."

Very, very carefully, Miles tugs on Ollie's hand and pulls her in, against his chest, holding her. For a moment, she still seems terrified by the gesture, shaking and shaking, but she doesn't pull away.

"Did you go back?" he asks, finally.

"…Yeah. In the morning. The bandits were gone, the horses were gone, and they'd… they'd burned everything down. Even… even the bodies. Gone. All gone. I… picked through the rubble. Managed… to find a few things that hadn’t been completely destroyed. A few… supplies and… and clothes. I just… took what I could and then… then I left."

"And you went to Allentown?"

She nods against his chest. "I cut my hair before I arrived, and told them my name was Oliver. I thought… if I was a boy… I'd be safer. Those bandits… they just killed boys. But girls…"

"Ollie," Miles says, "those bandits we took down… were they the same ones?"

She nods again. "Some of them, yes. But… the guy who… he… he wasn't there. I saw all the bodies, Miles. I _checked_. He's still out there."

"He's one of Franklin's people. Those bandits were Franklin's men." The mere thought makes the rage boil up worse and worse, and Miles holds onto Ollie tighter. Protective.

"I'm sorry," she sobs, softly. "I should have told you. I shouldn't have lied. You… all of you… you took me in when you didn't have to and fuck, Miles, you all saved my life. You made my life worth _living_ again. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, hey, it's all right," he tells her. "What you did… I understand it. I do. But it's OK. You're safe with us. You can be who you really are."

Ollie nods again.

"You're safe now. We won't let anyone hurt you. _I_ won't let anyone hurt you. And somewhere, out there, my perfect sniper of a boyfriend is lying in wait for Franklin. He'll take him down, and bit by bit, that son of a bitch's little empire will crumble. And all his followers, all those people who rape and murder innocent Americans… they'll fall too. But we'll find them, and we'll destroy them, so that no one – no one – ever has to go through what you went through. And when it's all over, when it's all done, we'll find somewhere safe, and we'll live there, and no one – _no one_ – will ever hurt you again, Olivia. You understand me?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"Good. Now… come back to the tent. You need to sleep. And I promise, you'll be safe when you do."

And somehow, he manages to get her back inside. But Miles doesn't sleep another moment that night. He sits in the dark, watching where Ollie lies, curled into a tight ball. He sits, holding his knife, watching the light from the tiny lamp flicker along the blade.

And feeling the rage burn into a fire that will never go out.

***

Shortly after the sun rises, Bass and Jeremy move into place. The campfire has long since been extinguished and the tents repacked on the horses who are kept further downwind, down from the bluff, with nosebags on to minimise the noise.

Bass had already picked his vantage point yesterday and it feels right when he lies down into it. He has his canteen within easy reach because for all Franklin is due today, there's no saying what time he will get here. His rifle is shored up ready, and he relaxes into the position with years of experience. It's actually quite calming. You know you're there for the long haul, and all you can do is stay still and silent and wait for your mark. Everything else in the world tunnels down to the grass around you, the ground below you, the world at the end of your sight and the sounds of the world turning slowly by.

He's aware that Jeremy isn't quite as settled. The infrequent shuffling noises and half-sighs tell Bass that his partner just… doesn't have the mentality. He doesn't have the patience and self-discipline to do this. He doesn't have the required ability to _switch off_ and _wait_ that Bass does. Still the man is a reasonable shot. Miles has even less patience than Jeremy does, and it would feel wrong to put a sniper rifle in Ollie's hands. He'd hoped that the self-discipline and distance would let Jeremy's confidence grow, but the more they lie here, the more he realises it was a terrible, terrible mistake.

Bass is about to tell Jeremy to just go sit with the horses further back when he hears it: in the distance there's the unmistakable clip-clop of horses' hooves. He holds up one hand and then cups his ear, knowing Jeremy will pick up the movement and the signal. _Listen._

This is it. This is the moment. He settles down as securely as he can and wills the pounding in his chest to slow down and pulls that inner calm over his head like a blanket. Everything goes slow and sharp, the adrenaline focussing his mind to terrible purpose.

The convoy is just as described: two outriders ahead, two behind. The coach itself is black and painted with the livery they've seen flying on flags here and there, the winding river-bend on a solid background. A driver spurs the draft horses on.

Unfortunately, Bass can't see clearly inside the coach. He was hoping it would be obvious, that Franklin would be sitting somewhere near a window and therefore vulnerable. But all he can see is the occasional bob of a head from inside. He can only make out one passenger, and he seems to fit Carter's description. He's distinctive enough, though, that he wonders if this is really the person Carter got his orders from, or if it was some underling.

As they start to draw level, Bass realises the layout is just… wrong. His angle is all off. With the man inside leaning back and forth at will he's struggling to get a bead on him from this position. The cart is coming up and beyond him and he just isn't convinced of any shot.

But then there's Jeremy. Bass' eyes flit over and he realises Jeremy's got a different line of sight. Jeremy might be able to – no, _should_ be able to – take the shot. He stares over at him and makes frantic, silent field gestures.

_Do it. Shoot. Take the shot. Kill him. For fuck's sake, Jeremy, **shoot the man…**_

Bass can see it. Can see the moment Jeremy chokes. Can see the fear in his eyes that means he's not going through with it. Bass should never have pushed him into this, but he'd thought it might help him. Might get him over his aversion to shooting and killing. He sees now how utterly wrong-headed he's taken this, and with an even more sinking feeling he sees that he now really has lost all hopes of making the shot.

" _Do it,_ " he hisses, quietly. "Jeremy. Please. Take the shot."

Jeremy shakes his head again. Bass pleads with his eyes. Jeremy stares back and looks like a man betrayed… then he stares down the barrel and he shoots. And he misses.

Bass knows he's missed because the sound is that of bullet hitting wood, not bullet hitting flesh and bone. Below, panic sets in as the horses whinny and the people yell and guns are drawn and shots fired in their general direction. Bass tries once more to sight through the scope, but the man in the coach by now must be pressed into the floorboards and Bass just doesn't have the manpower or ability to take down five men plus their target. Not when Jeremy is white as a sheet and shaking behind his rifle.

"Crawl back," he hisses. "Crawl back to the horses. We have to get out of here."

Jeremy isn't moving at all. His hands are rigor-tight on the handgrip and the finger on the trigger looks like it's frozen solid. He's not looking up and not moving at all.

"Jeremy… Jeremy! We have to move. They will come for us. We have to move."

He's still not moving, and Bass can hear the two riders at the front of the convoy coming closer. They must have worked out where the shot was likely to have come from and started trying to reach them. It's only a matter of time.

Cursing under his breath, Bass pushes up to a crouch and scrambles over to him. There's a crack of gunfire and a strange feeling of pressure, but that's the only way he knows he's been shot. Adrenaline courses through him, making him invincible. Adrenaline and fear for Jeremy.

He grabs the man with an arm looped under his and drags, and that's enough to spur the man into action. Suddenly alive again, they run hell-for-leather to the horses, jumping on and kicking them into life.

Under the noise and the heavy breathing, Bass becomes aware of the pain for the first time. No, it was always there. It was just shock that prevented it from being _there_ in his head. Survival instinct kicking in first and foremost. It's still as if it's happening to someone else, though, and he presses a hand down hard on his bleeding side to try and staunch the flow of blood. It's a nasty wound, his mind tells him academically. Not through-and-through, because there's no exit wound. Which means the bullet is still inside. And any minute now, the pain is going to get unbearable.

They ride the horses hard, but he can hear there's people gaining on them. He can hear the hot, panting sound of horses behind them. Shit. Shit. Lambo and Prius are somewhat encumbered with the small amount of travelling provisions, plus it's taken them time to get up to speed once they've mounted. As they ride through the trees, Bass knows it won't be long before they are in an open space again and sitting ducks.

He whirs Lambo around and she cries out in complaint at the sudden change of tack. Jeremy carries on riding, and Bass prays silently that he doesn't work out what Bass is doing until…

…until the two riders drew up close enough and Bass dispatches them with a bullet each from his sidearm.

"Bass!"

Jeremy has clearly worked out what's up, his pale grey horse skittering as he pulls the beast around, too.

"Just ride, Jeremy. Ride."

***

The next morning, Ollie seems… calmer. Miles doesn't push her to say anything else, and what words pass between them are normal and routine. Only when they're making ready to leave does he finally decide there's one thing he does need to say.

"Look," he starts, carefully, "I won't mention last night again in front of you, but… when we get back… the others need to know. All of it."

Ollie just nods. She knows he's right.

"I can tell them," Miles goes on. "You don't have to be there. You don't have to go through it again."

"Thanks," she whispers. "I think… that would be easier."

"All right. Until then… let's just focus on getting to Elms Grove. It'll be easier to stay distracted."

Ollie manages the slightest, slightest wry smile. "I know," she says. "Trust me, I know."

So they ride on, following the route Ollie has marked out on the map until they come to a little village built on the very edge of the forest. It's made entirely of wood, and does indeed look new – a collection of small houses arranged around a central, grassy square. Even Allentown was huge compared to this place.

Tethering the horses in the forest, they wait, watching the movement in the village beyond. Miles doesn't want to move in too quickly. Not until he's sure.

And then… he sees Ben. And it's like the whole world has crashed into him like a great wave; a tumultuous mass of relief and regret and hope. He watches as Ben goes up to one of the houses and heads inside, and then gestures to Ollie.

"You did it," he whispers. "You're brilliant. Come on."

Together, they cross the open grass on the edge of the village and approach the house in question. Taking a deep breath, Miles lifts his hand and knocks on the back door… and, a moment later, it opens.

Ben Matheson stands in the doorway, staring out with a stunned look on his face. "…Miles?!"

"Ben," Miles says. "Thank fuck."

And he grabs his brother, pulling him into a hug, just… unbelievably glad to see him. Unbelievably glad to see him, alive, well, here. Safe.

"…How the heck did you find me?" Ben exclaims, when Miles lets him go, gesturing them both into the house. "You were in Port Royal when the lights went out. Did you walk all this way?"

"Yeah," Miles answers, as Ben shuts the door. "Something of a story, actually. Although…" He remembers some introductions are needed. "Ben, this is Olivia Fischer. Ollie. She's a friend. Ollie… this is Ben Matheson, my older brother."

"Good to meet you," Ben says, shaking Ollie's hand, and looking between the two of them as if trying to work out why Miles appears to have a much younger woman following him around. "So… you walked all this way?"

"We did," Miles answers. "It was just me and Bass to begin with, but we met Ollie en route, and before that we met a guy called Jeremy, and the four of us have been travelling together."

"Travelling here? To find me?"

"Yes. Are Rachel and the kids here too?"

"They are," Ben answers, and only now does Miles notice the overly-careful edge to his brother's tone. "They're all fine, but they're… out. Miles… why did you come all this way?"

Miles stares. "Why? Because you're my brother. My family. Because you rang me up and told me the lights were going out and then they _did_. Because you know what happened."

"I do," Ben says, even more careful. Guarded, really, now. "But… I don't want to talk about it. It went horribly wrong. It wasn't supposed to happen."

"Can it be undone?" There's the crucial question, the one that's weighed on Miles' mind for so long.

Ben's expression closes off completely. "…Technically, it should be possible. But… I don't think it can ever happen."

"Come with me," Miles says, going for broke. "Rachel and the kids too. Come with me. Bass and I will protect you, and we can… see. If it can be fixed."

Ben shakes his head. "Miles. I'm not going anywhere. All of this… it's my fault. I need to stay out of the way. Hidden. Need to keep my family safe."

"I can help you do that," Miles insists. "I'm… forming an army. A militia. To take on the army of bandits who've been raiding towns further south. I'm going to make things safe again, for everyone."

"A militia?" Ben repeats, incredulous. "Miles… if you're starting some kind of war, I want nothing to do with it."

"I'm not asking you to be involved! I just want you to be safe."

"I am safe, Miles. We all are. We're safe here."

Miles can't quite believe what he's hearing. He's come all this way – all this fucking way – and Ben says _no_?!

"…I walked a thousand miles for you. I nearly died in a snowstorm, nearly got murdered by bandits, and never once looked back because all I wanted was to find _you_."

"And I'm touched, Miles, but… I'm not going anywhere. I can't. I'm sorry."

And there's nothing more to be said. A year. For nothing.

***

"I'm fine, I'm fine, seriously." Bass bats at Jeremy, waiting for him to stop fussing. "Just… just… keep me warm and hydrated and the rest can wait for Miles."

Jeremy frowns. Bass does not look fine. Bass looks terrible. Once they'd got as far as the rendezvous point Bass had all but collapsed from his horse's back to the floor.

Jeremy hadn't even known he was hurt until then. The man had concealed the gunshot wound for as long as he possibly could. How he rode – at full gallop – for so long without once complaining, Jeremy isn't sure. He just knows now that Bass looks almost dead and that under the emergency dressing, he's likely still bleeding.

"Bass… seriously there has to be something I can do…?"

"Can you remove a bullet from a gunshot wound?" Bass asks.

Jeremy blanches.

"I didn't think so. It's okay. Miles is due soon. Miles is coming and then he can take it out, and he has all the meds, so he can give me antibiotics and painkillers. I'll be okay."

Bass' tone is short and there's anger in his eyes. Jeremy knows it's all directed at him. Directed at him because he fucked up and missed. And then he choked. And the only reason Bass is hurt is because he couldn't follow simple instructions like 'shoot' and 'run'.

"I… I just… I want to help…"

"Warm. Watered. Awake." The words are curt and to the point. "That's all."

Jeremy nods sadly, and offers Bass the canteen of water again. When Bass shakes his head no, Jeremy grinds his teeth together. "You said watered."

"Not right now. Not thirsty."

"You get dehydrated before you get thirsty."

"Not. Right. Now."

Even though he's hurt, it still makes Jeremy's blood boil with how stupid Bass is being. He fusses with the blanket over Bass' legs – the man is propped up with their packs and other things in front of the fire – and ignores the way Bass' eyes follow him.

"I'm sorry, okay."

"No. It's my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you." Bass' voice is heavy with self-recrimination and that hurts, too. "You're just not… you're just not a killer, Jeremy, and I forget that there's nothing wrong with that."

"But he deserves it," Jeremy argues.

"Yeah. But he deserves it from someone like me or Miles."

"So… I'm supposed to just… cook? Is that it?"

"Not everyone is a born killer, Jeremy. And there's nothing wrong in being normal. Not like me or Miles."

"Yeah, and being normal might wind up with you dying."

"I'm not going to die," Bass argues, but he's certainly not looking well.

"We're all going to die."

"Eventually. Jeremy… just stop it. I'm fine. I'm…"

But then Jeremy watches as Bass' head moves and he's staring at something. His eyes follow Bass', but he can't see anything other than trees.

"Bass…?"

"Run."

"Bass?!"

Jeremy watches incredulously as Bass rises unsteadily to his feet. He draws his sidearm and waves Jeremy back.

"Come on, come out, you know I can hear you," Bass calls out to the woods. "I know you're here. I know you want to finish what you started. Why don't you face me like a man, instead of skulk like a fox in the shadows?"

Jeremy wonders if Bass has finally lost it, but something in the way he limps ahead of the fire, shaking hand lifting his sidearm to point at the blackness beyond makes him hesitate.

"Come on… you already shot me once… I'm a sitting duck… you should come put me out of my misery. I'll likely die of sepsis within a week anyway. Come on… it would be a mercy. Just see if a man half dead is a faster shot than you…"

Bass is wavering. Jeremy can see it the moment before it happens. Can see the way his body suddenly just _gives_ and he drops down to one knee, hand to his side, crying out in pain and grief. The last little show of bravado too much.

Which is when he moves. Now he sees him. Now Jeremy sees the shadowy man advancing on the crumbled form of his friend. Bass is curled in on himself, but he lifts his head to stare at him. To stare at the gun barrel pointed squarely at his head.

"You mean, face you like a man the same way you tried to assassinate our leader?" the man spits. "Maybe I should drag you back to make an example of you. Maybe I should let you die of your injuries in front of would-be rebels?" The sound of a thumb drawing back the cocking mechanism, the hammer primed into place.

"Maybe you should," Bass agrees.

Bang.

It sounds quieter than Jeremy remembers. Gunfire. It sounds like it did on the TV or on a movie. It sounds distant and not-real. It is totally at odds with the thud in his hand or the smell of gunpowder. It sounds like it's happening in some other dimension, not here.

The man threatening Bass falls to the ground in front of him, and Jeremy is still holding the smoking gun.

Bass turns and their eyes meet.

Jeremy just killed a man.

***

The quiet of the ride back is far heavier than the quiet of the ride over. Miles barely says a word. He leads the way through the forest, Ollie following on behind, Humvee alongside Audi, keeping the pace quick.

Ollie doesn't know what to say. The conversation of the previous night was bad enough, but to have everything with Miles' brother come to a head the way it did… well. She doesn't think she's ever seen him so upset. So angry.

It takes them all day and into the night to get back to the designated rendezvous point, deep in the forest just south of Chicago. Miles is lost inside his own head, mind a storm of thought, and doesn't think on anything else until they get close enough to the meeting point… which is when his heart nigh-on stops.

The campfire is burning low, and Lamborghini and Prius are tethered on the far side of the clearing. The other tent is here, set up – and lying in the middle of the clearing, covered in blood, is a man.

" _Fuck_ ," Miles gasps, leaping off Ferrari's back and dropping down beside the man. A quick check reassures him that it's no one he knows, but the guy is dead and it isn't a good sign.

Fuck. Fuck. The clearing deserted and a body by the fire. Which is when he hears the low sounds coming from the tent, and the soul-deep panic kicks in.

"Bass. _Bass_!"

Gun drawn, he races over to the tent, yanking the flap back… and his heart almost stops again at what he sees.

"Miles!" Bass looks up at his voice, but his eyes are hardly focussing and it's clear he's not all there. He's lying on his good side – the bandage just above his hip soaked through. Behind him, Jeremy is pressed full length into him, arms wrapped around him, holding him still. "MILES! MILES! YOU CAME! MILES!"

Behind him, Jeremy cringes and tries to hide behind him. "He got hurt," he says, superfluously. "He got hurt really bad, Miles."

For a split second, Miles' mind just won't process what he's seeing. It's like he's run headfirst into a brick wall and all of reality is shuddering under the impact. And then his focus snaps back, razor-sharp and fuelled by what surely have to rank as the worst preceding twenty-four hours of his life thus far.

The first thing he processes is Jeremy, curled _very_ close to Bass, and it makes his eyes go utterly dark. "What the _fuck_?!" he exclaims, instinctively grabbing hold of Jeremy to yank him away from Bass. _His_ Bass.

Which is when the rest of the world – and the shock – fully kicks in, and he realises what Jeremy was actually saying… and just how much blood there is. He lets go of Jeremy with a jump and throws himself down next to his lover, hands out to his side at once.

"Bass? Bass?! Can you hear me?"

Bass complains at Jeremy being yanked off, and curls up into a little, cold ball. "Hurts… cold… hurts, Miles… Miles, I'm sorry… I'm sorry I tried I tried…" Tears start to well up in his eyes, and he yelps in pain at the fingers, pulling away from them and shuffling back to try and find the warm Jeremy again.

"I'm sorry," Jeremy blurts out, backing up as far as he can in the tent. "He was hurt and cold and I didn't know what else to do. He's running a fever but he keeps saying he's cold and I didn't have any meds and he wouldn't let me take the bullet out but I don't even know if I could, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Miles' mind doesn't have time for any of the emotional stuff, beyond the stab of terror at how badly injured Bass is. He just… slips into this mental place that's somehow above it. Or below it. Hard to say for sure. He looks back at Jeremy. "Get my pack, from Ferrari. Quick. Tell Ollie to tether the horses and then tell her to get in here too. I need both of you to help with this."

Without waiting for any response, he turns straight back to Bass, gripping his hand. "Hold on," he says. "I'm going to sort this. Just stay with me."

Orders. Jeremy can do orders. He can follow those. He nods and vanishes out of the tent – happy to be doing something useful.

Bass meanwhile is trying to curl around Miles' leg. He's whimpering pathetically – a noise he'd never make if he was aware of how it sounded – eyes jammed shut again. "You came," he murmurs. "You came. I thought you were never coming. You came."

"I'm here," Miles whispers, and only now does the emotion in his voice start to crack through. "I'm here. You're going to be all right, Bass. I'm here now."

He doesn't know how lucid Bass really is, but knows that talking to him has to help, even if the man never remembers a word of it. "Just relax. I'm going to get that bullet out of you and stitch up the wound, and then I'm going to hold you all night."

"I thought you weren't coming," Bass repeats. "I called and I called and I called. I fucked up. I can't do it without you. I fucked up." Now he does start to cry, and it's horrible, sloppy, messy wet tears. He reaches out for him, but his grip is weak and he's wearing himself out with the crying.

"Hey, hey, relax," Miles insists, pushing Bass back down but not letting go of him. "It's going to be all right, I promise you. It's going to be all right."

 _I fucked up_. Guilty though the side-thought is, Miles can't help the reaction those words provoke in him. Does this mean… Franklin isn't dead?

Does this mean it was all for nothing?

Bass just bawls harder, bloody hands trying vainly to grasp at him. He needs to feel him. Needs to know he's there. He's all but passing out from the exertion, but he has to keep hold of him.

Which is when Jeremy scoots back into the tent, pushing Ollie ahead of him. "We're here, Miles. What do you need?"

Miles grabs his pack from Jeremy all at once, dropping it close by and yanking it open, searching around for the medical supplies he's got. They haven't needed anything major before, so thank fuck he's still got a decent stock. He locates fresh dressings, painkillers and… yes. Antibiotics. No way of knowing how strong they are or if they're the right type, but he has to try. From the state Bass is already in… sepsis can't be far off, and if it sets in… fuck. No. Don't even think it.

"I need you both to do exactly what I tell you, or this isn't going to work," Miles answers, immediately slipping back into that firm but emotionless tone. "I have to get the bullet out before I can stitch this up, and that isn't going to be pleasant. I need both of you to hold Bass still for me. Ollie, lift him up and hold him from behind. Jeremy, keep his legs down."

Ollie – mind still a haze – nods numbly and does as she's told as best she can, moving around behind Bass and lifting him in order to get hold of him, supporting him firmly. She doesn't even think about it, or what it feels like, or how terrified she is. She just… acts.

"No!" Bass starts to freak out, trying to get out of Ollie's grip. "Let go of me! No! I won't tell you anything! LET ME GO!"

Jeremy launches himself, not wanting Ollie to get cracked in the face. He grabs Bass by the thighs and uses his weight to hold him down. "It's okay. We've got this. Just do what you have to do."

"I WON'T TELL YOU ANYTHING!"

Miles grabs Bass' hand again. "Bass! Bass! It's OK! It's me. Relax. For fuck's sake, it's OK, you're safe."

Maybe it's worse than he feared. He turns back to his pack, digging about inside, pulling out his metal canteen cup and a half-bottle of whisky. He pours a little into the cup, then finds a couple of vicodin, crushing them and adding them to the whisky, before doing the same with a couple of the antibiotics.

"Drink this," he says, lifting the cup to Bass' lips. "It will help with the pain, I promise."

Bass' lips press into a thin line and he shakes his head, eyes wild with fear and fever.

" _Bass_ ," Miles urges. "Please. I need to do this." And… his voice cracks again, just a little, but in a way he'd never let happen in front of anyone else if he had a choice. Even Jeremy and Ollie. "Bass, please. It's OK. I love you. I love you. Trust me…"

All Bass can feel is fear and pain. Fear, pain, the knowledge of his own failure and his loneliness. It's his whole world. It's everything. But something in Miles' tone and in his eyes manages to make a tiny little chink in the hurting, and he closes his eyes and opens his mouth just a little.

As soon as he does, Miles tips the cup, making Bass drink the mixture of whisky and drugs. He knows it won't be the most pleasant experience in the world, but in the grand scale of things it's barely going to register. When he's done, he moves back, dropping the empty cup and snatching up the bottle again.

Then he draws his knife, pouring a liberal quantity of the whisky over it, before pausing to take a mouthful for himself as well. Once that's done, he lifts the remnants of Bass' shirt, tearing it back to give himself clear access.

"Make sure he stays still," he says, to the other two, and then starts taking off the blood-soaked dressing that's already in place, exposing the wound beneath.

On some level, Bass knows what's going to come. So he reaches up over his head and grabs Ollie's forearms with his weak hands. He keeps his eyes closed because he doesn't want anyone to see. And he doesn't want to, either.

As Miles pulls off the bandage he lets out a little gasp of pain which dissolves into a whimper. He flinches back from Miles again.

"Fuck…" Miles breathes. It doesn't look good. It really doesn't. He's seen some nasty gunshot wounds before, and this is definitely not one he wants to see on someone he cares about. But… no. Focus. Focus. Don't think about anything else. Certainly don't think about Kabul. Just… do it.

He leans in with the knife and starts to slowly – carefully – dig the bullet out of Bass' side.

No. No. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts bad. Bass starts to buck underneath Miles, tugging furiously, trying to get away from the knife. He screams a note of pure terror, howling at the top of his lungs. It's the sound of a wounded animal, not a man.

At his feet, Jeremy tries to smother the kicks down and keep him still to prevent him injuring himself more. But the scream goes through him and he locks eyes with Ollie. He knows this won't be easy on her, and he's terrified on her behalf as much as Bass'.

Ollie is so far past terrified that she's come out the other side, into a strange mental place that… well. She's only ever been once before, though for a very different reason. But that scream cuts through her – not just because of how agonised it sounds and how it hurts her to see her friend in pain, but also because of how loud it is. How it will carry. What if someone else hears? Someone looking for the man lying dead by the fire outside?

Seeing no other option, she clamps her hand over Bass' mouth. It's awful – awful – to have to do it, but if it stops the sound carrying, stops anyone finding them… it has to be helpful in the long run.

Bass screams and screams into Ollie's hand – the sound muted but still there – thrashing and then going still. The fight is just beaten out of him, and he's limp in their hands. He's not even aware of half of what's going on. It's too hard to think. Way too hard to think.

Miles is vaguely aware that the other two are managing not to go to pieces – thank fuck – and keeps working, going as fast as he dares without risking rushing. Eventually, he manages to lift the bullet out, dropping it into the empty cup with a resounding clatter.

He sits back on his heels, rubbing the back of his hand over his forehead. "All right. That's the worst part done. Now I need to clean this out and stitch it up."

"Do we still need to hold on?" Jeremy asks.

"Yes," Miles answers at once. "Don't you dare let go, either of you."

He goes back to his pack, retrieving the fresh dressings, as well as a suturing kit that he's been carrying since Parris Island. Just in case. Taking another deep breath, he starts to clean the wound, knowing it needs to be as good as possible if it's going to heal. And then, he starts to stitch it up, being as careful as he can.

Bass is too worn out to complain, now, just the occasional whimper and hiss and flinch. There is no fight left in him. He just lies and lets Miles do his work – head lolling to one side. He pants hotly into Ollie's hand.

Ollie eventually – cautiously – moves that hand, hoping that there won't be any more screaming. She's still shaking, but her grip on Bass stays sure and she doesn't let go.

When he's finally done, Miles fixes a clean dressing over the wound, and then binds over the top with a long bandage. And then… then it's done. "All right… you can let go of him, now," he says.

Jeremy does let go, but slowly. He's ready to pounce again in case Bass starts to get frantic, but it never happens. Instead the man just lies there, chest rising in short, sharp breaths. He's not even making any noises, now.

Miles pulls the sleeping bag back up and over Bass, covering him again to keep him warm, then grips his hand and just… holds on. For a long, long moment.

Then… he looks up. At Jeremy. "What the _fuck_ happened?" he demands.

"I… we…" Jeremy can't look at Miles. He stares down at the groundsheet underneath them all. "It… it went horribly wrong."

"Yeah," Miles says, flatly. Coldly. "I got that. I got that when I came back to find my boyfriend bleeding to death in the tent and deliriously saying over and over that he fucked up. So you look me right in the eyes, Jeremy Baker, and you tell me _what the fuck happened_."

Jeremy still won't look up. "I couldn't make the shot. I – I choked and… and I tried and I missed and then… then it… I couldn't move and…" He's fighting to get the words out past the way his tongue is thick and heavy, all of a sudden. His own eyes tear up. "He… he came to help me and… and I didn't know he was hurt until… until… we got back…"

"Franklin's still alive?" Miles pushes. He realises this must be the case but he needs to hear it said, one way or another. Needs to know for sure if this really all was for nothing.

Jeremy won't move at all. He's just locked up completely, hands sliding sweaty palms over his knees.

The uncertainty is only making matters worse. " _Jeremy_!" Miles hisses, and it's obvious that only the need to stay at Bass' side is stopping him from physically rounding on the other man. "Answer the fucking question."

"The only guy we killed is the one outside. So unless that's Franklin… no."

Miles just… looks down. "Fuck…"

Everything has gone to hell. Bass is in a horrific state, Ben won't have anything to do with him, and Ollie… oh _fuck_ , Ollie…

There's a slight stab of guilt at that realisation, but Miles can't focus on it now. He can't. It's all too much.

He's just about to speak again when there's a series of very odd noises outside – noises that make Ollie glance up at once. Noises that must be one of the horses, though he can't work out quite what they mean.

"Fuck," Ollie whispers, and, without explanation, stands and hurries out. Miles can hear her continuing to mutter, "fuck, fuck, fuck," but he doesn't know why. He can only assume that the lack of shouting for help means it isn't something he needs to immediately worry about.

And that means he can turn his attention back to Jeremy. "So Franklin survived and Bass nearly died. I leave you alone for _two days_ and this is what happens!"

"I'm sorry!" Jeremy blurts out. "I… I wanted to! I wanted to help! I wanted to be useful but I just… I couldn't do it! And then I tried and I missed! Miles, I'm not a soldier! I'm not even brave!"

Below, Bass lifts a hand weakly and bats at Miles' arm. "He… shot. The guy. He saved… me…"

This makes Miles glance at the tent flap, as if seeing into the clearing beyond, before looking back at Jeremy. "That guy out there?" he says, voice flatter again. "You shot him?"

Jeremy nods, mutely. He feels awful about it, but the guy was about to kill Bass.

"Well. That's something, then," is all Miles will say to this. Deep down, he's vaguely aware that Jeremy has never actually killed anyone before – which probably explains a lot about _his_ current mental state – but he's too wound up to make much use of this information just yet.

He rubs a hand over his eyes, and then another thought swims to the surface in the tumult that is his mind right now. He lowers his voice a little. "There's something else," he says, looking at Jeremy again. "I know about Ollie. She told me everything. We'll discuss it later."

"She… she did?" Jeremy manages to look up now. He looks… haunted. He looks like a completely different man to the one who left two days ago.

"Yeah," Miles says. "So don't you dare leave her alone tonight, you got me?"

"Cold," Bass complains. "Cold…"

At those words, Miles moves in closer. "Bass needs rest. So… go and see what Ollie's doing. We'll talk more in the morning."

And without waiting for agreement, he pulls off his boots and pushes under the sleeping bag with Bass, rolling him gently onto his good side and holding him close.

Bass purrs in quiet relief, snuggling back into Miles' arms.

"I… I won't. I won't, Miles. I won't let you down again." Jeremy glances one last time at Bass – eyes full of sorrow and regret – and he vanishes out of the tent.

Outside, whatever was previously going on with the horses seems to have passed, although – notably – Ollie appears to have moved them about. Ferrari is now tethered separately from the others, on the opposite side of the clearing, and doesn't seem wholly happy about it, pawing at the ground and tugging at the rope a little.

Ollie herself is now sitting by the campfire, staring at the body of the dead man. She's barely moving, arms pulled around herself, shoulders tight.

Jeremy's first inclination is to walk over but then his eyes follow Ollie's and… oh.

The dead man.

"…you… you okay to give me a hand moving him?" Jeremy asks. "Or… you need to stay here?"

Ollie gets up. She looks like she's been crying, but she nods straight away. "I can help," she says. "We need to get him out of here."

Jeremy is glad she agrees, but he still feels like a tool for asking. He walks over and grabs hold of the guy's feet. "Maybe if we just take him far enough away. It's late and I don't… really want to dig tonight…"

"That works," Ollie agrees, shakily. "Just so he's… so he's not here."

She moves in to help – even though it's not at all pleasant. She just… does it. Autopilot, again. Getting done what has to be done.

"I know," he says, as he pulls. "But you don't have to talk about it. I just… I know. Okay?"

At first, Ollie isn't sure what he means, but then the realisation kicks in and she nods. "OK," she manages. "OK."

"Franklin's not dead," Jeremy goes on, hefting the body with more force than is needed, to make himself feel better. "I fucked up the shot. And he's not dead."

"I know," Ollie says, softly. "It's OK. I know Miles was all… was all Miles, but… it's OK. You got out. You got Bass out. In the morning… Miles will see that."

"I didn't," Jeremy argues. "Bass got me out. I… froze. I choked. And he got hurt dragging my ass back off. I… I ruined everything, Ollie. It's all my fault."

Ollie's heart is aching and she doesn't quite know what to say. "It will be all right," she manages. "We'll get through this. We all will."

It's what she keeps telling herself. Whether she actually believes it or not… she isn't sure yet.

Once the body is far enough away, Jeremy lets go.

And then he just… stares. The guy is dead. He shot him. But the guy is dead. Even though the man was about to murder Bass in front of him… it still… it still feels too big to process. "Okay."

Ollie lets go too and moves over to Jeremy, taking his hand as firmly as she can. "Come on," she says, and tugs, trying to walk him back to the campsite. Away from the body.

He resists but only for a moment… nodding and going where she leads. Even when they move, though, he can still see the dead body. He can see it everywhere.

"…did… how… did you find Ben?"

"Yes," Ollie answers, softly, the pain creeping into her voice again. "We did. Ben was right where I expected, but… nothing like I expected. He and Miles talked, but… he isn't coming. He said it was safer to stay where he was. He told Miles to go. I… I don't think I've ever seen Miles so angry or upset."

"He… he what? After we looked for him for a year? He… did he say why?" Jeremy can't believe it.

"He said it's safer to stay hidden," Ollie answers. "Said he doesn't want to risk moving his family. He was _very_ cagey when Miles asked about the power. Other than being relieved that his brother wasn't actually dead… I don't think Ben was pleased to see him at all."

"But… but…" It makes no sense. "We have to go back. We have to persuade him to come along! He could fix it, he could fix it all!"

"He wants nothing to do with it, or Miles, or us. And I don't think Miles wants anything to do with him either, now."

They're finally back at the campsite, and Ollie drops down beside the fire, staring into it. "It wasn't good, Jeremy," she says. "It wasn't good at all."

"No. I… _fuck_ …" It isn't. Miles knows about Ollie. Ben isn't coming. Bass is maybe dying, and Jeremy is a massive tool. It isn't good at all.

***

Miles doesn't sleep all night. He's exhausted – doubly-so because he barely slept the previous night, either – but he stays awake, holding Bass all the way through, not willing to leave his side.

Eventually, though, sunlight is filtering into the tent and he can hear movement outside. Bass seems to be asleep for the time being, so Miles finally relents and moves, slipping out from beside him and clambering out into the harsh glow of the morning.

Beyond, he can see the second tent erected nearby, and Ollie sitting beside the campfire, having re-stoked it. She looks up at him as he steps out, her eyes still so haunted and scared.

"You all right?" he asks, redundantly.

"No," she answers, honestly. "But I'm still here."

Still here? Why does that..? "…Where's Jeremy?"

Ollie gestures off into the trees. "He went looking for water. He's been gone a little while, actually. I was starting to wonder…"

"…Fuck," Miles breathes, understanding. Jeremy. Jeremy, who blamed himself for everything. Jeremy, who has tried to do something like this once before – and though Miles didn't see it that time, Bass told him enough.

He races off into the forest, without a word of explanation.

Jeremy is getting water. He's getting a lot of water. He knows he'll need it if he's going to survive on foot, with what few things he managed to hide on his person when he left the campsite. He knows it's time. Knows it's time he left. It was never meant to be forever, it was only ever meant to be temporary. He's sealing up the last waterskin when he hears someone approaching. He curses under his breath and wonders if he should just make a run for it? No… with horses they could chase him down. Perhaps he can pretend he's coming back?

Which is when Miles finally gets close enough and spots the other man. Thank fuck. "There you are," he says. "What the fuck are you playing at?"

"…filling up waterbottles," Jeremy says. It's the truth. "Hey. Uh. How's Bass?"

"He's still asleep," Miles answers. "And you know precisely what I mean. Were you planning on coming back?"

Because he's sure he knows what the answer is.

"I… I don't think it's such a good idea," Jeremy admits, standing up properly and brushing himself down. "I mean. I appreciate everything you've done for me. I just… I don't think I'm any use to you any more.

"The fuck?" Miles exclaims, closing in on him because… because he's Miles, and this is how he deals with his problems. "You're running away? After everything? You'd just walk away from what we're trying to do, from your _friends_? And, worse, you think I'd fucking _let_ you?"

Jeremy backs off, walking away from him with his hands up. "…I nearly got Bass _killed_ , Miles, and I fucked up the shot, and Franklin's still alive, and it was all for _nothing_. So… yeah. I think maybe I should go before I get Ollie killed too."

"So you fucked up," Miles says, his voice starting to drop to a growl. "And you're right. You did fuck up. Franklin's alive, and Bass nearly died, and you can be damn certain I'm pissed as hell about it. But you think that gives you the right to just walk away? You think you can just throw off any lingering shreds of responsibility and disappear back into the forests, never to be seen again? No. Not on my watch."

He closes the distance between them again, not willing to let Jeremy move too far away in case he tries to run for it.

Jeremy shoves at Miles' chest, trying to get him out of his personal space. "You weren't there! You weren't there when he screamed for you for hours! He screamed for you because I nearly – he nearly – Miles I _can't_!"

When Jeremy gets hysterical, Miles gets physical. He grabs hold of the other man before he can open up the distance between them, and slams him bodily into the nearest tree, holding him in place.

"Now you listen to me," he growls. "I wasn't there because _he_ sent me off to find my brother. My brother who nigh-on told me to fuck off when I turned up having walked a _thousand fucking miles_ to make sure he and his family were all right. I wasn't there because I let my personal feelings cloud my judgement. I let myself forget what needs to be done. And I am not letting you make the same fucking mistake."

Jeremy grabs at Miles' hands, trying weakly to pull him off. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants the earth to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. He wants to turn the clock back a week and fix everything. And he can't even look at Miles. Can't. Because of the horrible welling shame.

"I'm nothing, Miles. I'm nothing. I can't do anything to help you. I will just get in the way. I will just be a liability. Please… I'm sorry… I don't want to be the reason any of you get hurt…"

"Then stop fucking around and man up," Miles growls back, refusing to let go of him. "Do you want to make this right or not? You are a part of this group. A founding fucking _member_ of this group. It's us against the world, Jeremy. _Us_. You think you're a liability? You kept that poor girl together for _months_. One night with me and she spirals into a complete – if understandable – breakdown. So don't you dare call yourself a liability. Yeah, you fucked up. Well, I fucked up too. But we're all still alive, and all still here, so maybe we should just go back to being a group of fuck-ups who look out for each other. Because we're all we've got now. Nothing else. No family. Nothing. Just _us_."

Jeremy thinks about this. He thinks about it hard. It's true he's helped Ollie a lot, but he's not sure if helping her hide her true identity is really the best thing he could have done. Still, he'd had to respect her wishes. And from the way she'd talked to him last night, in the dark…

"…what if… what…" What if Bass dies? He can't say it, but he's thinking it. "You won't forgive me, then."

"If Bass dies… I won't forgive _myself_ ," Miles replies, voice suddenly dropping, understanding what Jeremy means even though he won't say it outright. "But if he dies… it doesn't change what has to be done. Franklin has to be stopped. And no matter how fucking scared you are… I _need_ you with me on this. I need you, Jem."

He doesn't quite know where the shortened name comes from. It just… slips out, on the wave of emotional honesty.

And – finally – Jeremy looks up. He's not sure what the hell that was, but it… sort of hurts. In a good way. But it still hurts.

"I don't know why you think you do… but… I guess if you say you do, then… I'll stay."

"Good," Miles answers, finally letting go of him. Visibly closing off again, as if somehow aware he's crossed some kind of boundary. "Then come back to the campsite with me… and we won't mention this to the others."

Jeremy's face also goes blank. Ollie. He was going to abandon her. Even with Miles and Bass… he's aware that was low of him. "Okay. I… okay."

Miles rather wishes he didn't have to be the Sensible One so often. He isn't at all suited to it. But he moves to help Jeremy with the waterbottles and then sets him off in the direction of the camp.

He puts a hand on the man's back as they walk. He figures it might help.

***

Three days pass; three long and difficult days. By the end of the first, Miles has still barely slept and remains stubbornly refusing to do so, and in the end Ollie rather daringly slips a couple of sleeping tablets into the man's whisky. It works surprisingly well and – luckily for her – he doesn't seem to realise come the following morning.

By the third day, Bass is rather more coherent – if still very weak – but he's well enough to come out of the tent and sit with them a little. This, naturally, constitutes a good thing, although it does in turn lead to something rather less good: Miles has to tell him – and, indeed, Jeremy – the whole truth about Ollie.

"I need to tell them now," he says to her, on the evening of the third day, a little while after they've eaten.

Ollie goes somewhat pale but nods. "OK. I… I don't want to be there. I'll go and see to the horses."

Miles nods, and puts a hand on her shoulder, before letting her go off to the far end of the clearing, where the horses are tethered. And then… he turns back to the camp.

Oh, but this is going to be awful. He has to tell them about Ollie, _and_ he still has to tell Bass about Ben.

He drops down beside the campfire. "So… there's some things you need to know."

Bass shifts uncomfortably on his little makeshift day-bed by the fire. He's still feeling weak and his side is sore as anything, but they can't afford to keep throwing opiates down his throat when they might need them in future. Going cold-turkey had been vetoed, but even weaning himself off them has been hard. "You gonna tell me why Ben isn't here?" Bass asks.

Jeremy draws his knees into his chest and tucks them under his chin. He can tell something bad is about to happen. The something Miles has been sulking about since he got back. The full explanation for why Ben isn't here with him.

Miles stares into the fire for a moment, the light reflecting in his eyes… and off something deeper, something half-glimpsed and lurking. Something that's been there ever since that morning in Elms Grove and won't go away.

He looks up. "I found him," he begins. "Well. Ollie found him, and sure enough, there he was. He and Rachel and the kids are all fine, though I only saw him. He… wasn't all that happy to see me, to put it mildly."

Miles looks down again. He knows, on a rational level, that Ben will surely have been glad to learn his brother was still alive – just as Miles was glad to learn the same. But it's a small flicker of rationality amidst a raging torrent of something rather less clear.

"I told him what we were doing. I told him we were making the world safer, and I asked him if he knew how to get the power back. He… implied it might be possible, but nothing more than that. And he said… he said he was safer where he was. He all but told me to get out. So… that's that. A year. A year for fucking _nothing_."

Bass sits upright – pain be damned and fuck the hiss when he does – "He said _what_?" His voice is shrill with anger, and his own eyes go dark. "We looked for him all this time and he throws his own brother out?"

"…did… did he say why?" Jeremy asks, timidly.

The pain in Bass' voice catches Miles' attention, sharpening his focus again. "Yeah. He seemed pretty eager to get rid of me. He just said… he and his family were safer there – _away_ from me and from what we're doing. But he wouldn't talk to me about any of it, not really. So I left. I left… and that's that. He can go to Hell. He really can."

Even though he's sitting too far away, Bass reaches his hand out to offer Miles something. Anything. "Bro… I'm so sorry. Fuck. I…" His teeth grit in anger. "I wish I'd been there. I would have told him… I… _fuck_ …" Bass isn't sure what he would have said. It probably wouldn't have been pretty.

"So… no power back on," Jeremy surmises. "And… now we just have to kill Franklin the hard way."

Miles drops his head and stares down again. "Yeah. Maybe I should have argued with him more, I don't know. I just… couldn't believe it. I…" He shakes his head. "Fuck it. Fuck it. I've got other problems now. They're alive and… that will just have to be enough. In the  
meantime… there's something else you need to know."

Bass' hand drops. "What…? Miles… come on. I… just tell me okay?"

If talking about Ben was hard… this is going to be worse. "It's about Ollie," Miles says. "The first part… Jeremy has known for a while," – his eyes flicker to the man for a second, though not accusingly – "and I found out the first night we were away. Bass… Ollie is a girl."

That makes Bass sit up even further and cry out in sharp pain, hand going to his side as he bends back over and coasts out the shock.

"Bass?" Jeremy asks, worriedly.

Bass waves a hand vaguely in an 'I'll be fine in a moment' way.

"Yeah," Miles says, in understanding. "I was just as stunned as you. She's a girl. She's been living as a boy… to protect herself."

Fuck. Fuck, it's so awful, he can hardly bring himself to tell them. But they need to know. They need to understand what happened to their friend.

"She told me everything, the night we were away," he goes on. "Her parents weren't killed in a car crash before the Blackout. They – and her older brother – were all killed six months _after_ the Blackout. Their home – the riding school where all the horses came from – was attacked by a gang of bandits. They burned it down. Murdered her family. And their leader… he raped her."

That makes both men stop dead and stare at Miles.

"…shit," says Jeremy. He suspected as much, but he'd never pushed to find out.

"I'll kill him," is all Bass can say. "I'll fucking kill him. Whoever he is, I will find him. And I will cut his fucking dick off."

"You and me both," Miles says, the shadows behind his eyes moving closer and closer to the fore. "Because he survived. He survived, but not before Ollie managed to hurt him. She got hold of that sword she has, when the guy was going to kill her, and she cut him across the face. And whilst he was reeling, she ran. She got out."

"Wait… she what?" Bass asks. "She… did she say how?"

The question is not what Miles expected, and he looks a little surprised by it. "No," he answers. "She just said… she slashed him across the face. Should make him pretty distinctive, if nothing else."

"I need to know what happened. I – Miles: go get him. Go get _her_ … _now_." It's going to take some getting used to, Bass realises, changing the pronoun.

Fuck. Something's going on. Miles nods and gets up, going over to where Ollie is standing, stroking Audi's neck and staring out into the forest, away from the others. She jumps a little when he puts a hand on her shoulder, turning to look at him… that hollow expression back in her eyes.

"Did you tell them?" she asks, softly.

"Yes," Miles answers. "But… there's something. I don't know what it is. Bass… needs to ask you about the guy who… the guy you cut with the sword."

Ollie goes white. "OK. I… OK."

And she follows him back to the campfire, instinctively sitting close to Jeremy, but not quite able to make eye-contact with any of them.

"Ollie… is that even your name? Whatever… Ollie, please… tell me… tell me how you cut him. Tell me what… tell me that bit. As much as you can remember. Please." Bass leans forwards, a haunted look colouring his face.

"Olivia," she says, softly. "But I was always Ollie growing up so… so I kept it. And… and…"

For a moment, she can't answer the rest, and she still can't look up. She curls into a tight little ball, arms around her knees, taking a deep breath before she finally speaks again.

"…He… I was… was on my back and he… he was above me… and I… I… slashed upwards with the sword. Cut… his right cheek, from… from his jaw up to his eyebrow, but… missed his eye. I… I didn't have time to plan it, I just… just… had to get him away from me…"

Bass buries his face in his hands and stifles a yelp of dismay.

"That…" Jeremy looks between the two of them. "That sounds… Bass…?"

"Like Franklin," Bass agrees. He still won't pull his hands away from his face.

"Yeah. The man in the wagon."

All Miles can do is stare in shock as it all makes sense. Stare in shock and feel the rage in his chest swell once more to breaking point from which it feels like it will never subside.

But Ollie… now Ollie does look up, and the horror on her face is writ large and open. "…Franklin is..? He's… He… Oh _fuck_..!" She's on the point of leaping up and running off, and it shows.

Jeremy moves fast. He goes over to her and grabs her in his arms for the biggest, hardest hug he can manage. He doesn't even care if she hits him. He just… knows.

And Ollie does hit him, but only from the shock of being grabbed like that when her mind is in such a bad place. She hits him until she processes that it's Jeremy and that she's safe and that at long fucking last she doesn't have to hide anything and just collapses into wracking sobs in his arms, clutching onto him and shaking nigh-on violently, crying and crying.

Jeremy takes all the hits and doesn't care one bit. He waits until she's got the fight out of her, then he rubs her back soothingly and strokes fingers through her too-short hair. He rests his head on hers and just keeps hold of her until she needs him not to any more.

"Shitshitshitshitshit," Bass says into his hands, voice raw with anguish. "I should have fucking… I should have tried to take a shot… shit shit shit shit…"

"You didn't know," Miles says to Bass, once he's confident that Jeremy isn't going to let Ollie run off. "None of us did. But when we do get that son of a bitch, I am going to rip him to pieces with my bare hands."

"You and me both," Bass insists. "Fuck. _Fuck_. I'm not going to stop until every single last man loyal to him is dead."

"Me neither," Miles agrees. "It's all we have now. The four of us. All we have. We take down that fucking maniac no matter what it takes. We destroy everything he's built up until every _trace_ of him is wiped clear. We make the world safe again."

"Yes," Jeremy says. "I'm… I'm sorry I messed up last time. I promise I won't do it again. I promise I won't ever do it again. Killing evil people is not… it's not killing. It's justice."

Bass lies back, exhausted. He's feeling cold of a sudden and the shiver wracks him hard. "…Miles?"

Miles takes a deep breath. He couldn't have said this a couple of days ago, but… he can, now. Just about. "It isn't your fault," he says to Jeremy. "What happened, happened. Knowing what he did wouldn't have changed anything. But now we do know… we have further motivation. This is personal now. This guy hurt one of _us_ , and I will never let that go."

And Bass' voice cuts once more through the cold haze of rage, making Miles blink over at his lover, realising how removed he himself has been throughout all of this. He gets up, going over to Bass and pulling him up into his arms, holding him. Suddenly needing that contact too.

Bass doesn't like appearing weak, but he is. Right now he's sore in body and spirit. He presses in carefully against Miles, his heart alternating between agony and emptiness. He doesn't even have anything to say. Not now.

"Teach me," Jeremy insists. "I mean, really. Teach me to be a soldier, not just to survive. Teach me how to _kill_." His eyes on Miles even as he's sheltering Ollie to his chest. "Please."

"I will," Miles promises, his tone dark but genuine. "I'll teach you. You shot a man, and that's a start. First one's the hardest. After that… it gets easier. And it will. It will get so easy you'll stop noticing it. I'll make you the best damn soldier in my whole militia."

"He was really good," Bass says, from somewhere in Miles' arms. "The guy was going to kill me, and he just shot him."

Jeremy flushes. "I couldn't… I… Bass you know I…"

"You did good," Bass murmurs, and buries himself deeper. "Fuck but I want to die right now."

"Well, don't," Miles says, possessively. "You need to get better. Because once you are… we step up the pace. We start rounding up our people and we _mobilise_ this militia. No more lurking and hiding. We find this bastard and we kill him."

"And you," he adds, looking at Jeremy, "you remember what it felt like when you couldn't take that shot. You remember, because next time? Next time it will be the strongest motivation in the world. You got me?"

Jeremy nods but averts his eyes, going back to cuddling Ollie. He doesn't need any more motivation. Not ever again.

"I hate being sick," Bass complains. "I hate that I'm holding everything up. We should be… we should be doing something. Not letting the trail go cold."

"This is not your fault," Miles insists. "It… it happened. So we get you better – properly better – and then we get moving. We've got people everywhere. The trail won't be cold for long."

Finally, finally, Ollie lifts her head from Jeremy's chest. She looks terrible, but she's stopped shaking. "And I'll be right there with you," she says. "I have to do this too. For my family."

Jeremy nods. "Because that's what we are, now," he says, finally meeting Miles' eyes. "We always will be."

And Miles nods. Ben is gone. He has to be the big brother now.

"Yes," he says, firm and fierce. "We always will be."

***

Another week passes; a long week. They remain hidden away in the forest, whilst Bass continues to recuperate. Supply runs start to become a necessity, and the first couple of times Miles refuses to leave, sending Jeremy and Ollie out instead.

By the third time, he's so stir-crazy from not leaving the camp for days that they practically force him to go. He and Ollie head out to the nearest village, coming back close to nightfall with more food and supplies.

"We're back," Miles calls, as he slips off Ferrari.

"Thank god," Bass calls out from his invalid-seat. Every time he tries to move to help, Jeremy yells him back away from the food preparation like some demented mother-hen. "I was beginning to go crazy. Jeremy practically had me tied up."

"You're resting, and I'm cooking," Jeremy scolds. "So rest."

Miles grins just a little at this, helping Ollie unload the packs before heading down to the fireside. She follows him, carrying something large and oddly-shaped – but clearly not heavy – wrapped in rough fabric.

"I found something," Ollie says, looking at Jeremy. "It's for you. To…ah… to say thank you for… you know… and 'cause we all need cheering up…" And she offers him the weird bundle.

Jeremy brushes his hands clean on his trousers, and stands up to take whatever she's holding. "For me?" His smile is wide and genuine, but when he unwraps the guitar it turns into pure shock.

Bass squawks in surprise. "…dude, you _play_?"

Jeremy nods, holding the instrument reverently and sliding his fingers over the strings. "A little, yes." His eyes are wet when he looks at Ollie next. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I love it."

She smiles back at him, knowing instantly that it was worth the effort to get it for him. To see that look on his face again. It's like a little drop of colour slipping back into a world gone grey.

"I'm glad," she says. "I remembered you said you used to like playing, and I figured… maybe a campfire sing-along would do us some good."

Jeremy holds the guitar by the neck in one hand, then opens the other up wide. "Come here, you wonderful, beautiful woman. I need to give you a gay best friend hug."

Ollie goes into the hug happily, holding on tight. She's still getting used to the idea of being a woman in front of them all, but it's… nice, to be able to. It was scary at first, but… she's safe with them. She knows that.

"Miles can play, too," Bass points out. "And sing. So. This should be fun…"

"I haven't played in ages," Miles insists, but he's known from the moment Ollie turned up with the guitar that he'd be getting a go before long. And he's sort of looking forward to it, even though he won't say as much. "But… I guess I could."

"Well I can leave the stew on for a while, or we could eat first?" Jeremy says. Both options sound good. He ruffles Ollie's hair with his nose then pulls slowly back to start tuning the guitar.

"Play us something?" she asks, with a grin. "A little… pre-dinner entertainment?"

"Okay… okay. I mean, I'm a bit rusty and I don't have any sheet music… uhm. You guys got any… objection to folksy-style music?" Jeremy asks, finding somewhere to prop his leg so he can hold the guitar in place. He strums it, musing.

"None here. I haven't heard music in so long I forget what it even is," Bass points out. "Play it. Play anything. Oh god just play, Jem!"

Miles can't help a grin at how quick that shortened name has stuck. He'd started using it after the incident in the forest, and Jeremy seemed to like it, and now it seems to appear almost as often as his Sunday name.

"Seconded," he agrees. "Fuck, I miss music."

He moves to sit down too, and after a moment's thought he goes over to Bass, sitting down behind him so he can wrap around his lover, holding him. Still… very protective.

Bass pulls Miles' arms around himself and curls happily into his chest. He is still feeling a little delicate, so he's grateful for the support.

"All right… this one's called 'Dominion of the Sword'," Jeremy says. "And… well, I guess it's for you, Ollie."

He clears his throat and strums again. Then – choking down the nerves – he starts to play and sing.

"Lay by your pleading, law lies a-bleeding  
Burn all your studies down, and throw away your reading  
Small power the word has, and can afford us  
Not half so much privilege as the sword does…"

"It'll the foster the master, plaster disaster  
This'll make a servant quickly greater than the master  
Ventures, enters, seeks and it centres  
Raises a 'prentice despite his endentures…"

"Talks of small things, it sets up all things  
This'll master money, though money masters all things  
It is not season to talk of reason  
Never call it loyal when the sword says treason…"

"Conquers the crown too, grave and the gown too  
Set you up a Presbyter, but then pulls him down too  
No gospel can guide it, no law decide it  
In church or state, till the sword sanctified it…"

"Take books, rent 'em, who can invent 'em?  
When that the sword says negatur argumentum  
Blood that is spilt, sir, hath all of the guilt, sir  
Thus have you seen me run my sword up to the hilt, sir…"

Ollie has tears in her eyes by the end, but they're happy tears, and as Jeremy falls silent she breaks into applause. "I love it," she says. "You're really good, too!"

"Yeah, you are," Miles agrees. "Just how many hidden talents do you have?"

"No more, I swear," Jeremy insists, even though he's blushing. "Except the 'Pelvic Thrust'…" With a wink to Ollie.

"Your go no," Jeremy adds, offering the guitar to Miles. "I can't do it all myself."

"…All right," Miles agrees. He kisses Bass on the back of the neck and then gets up, taking the guitar and sitting down with it, strumming a couple of strings to get a feel for it again. And then, he starts to play…

"The road is long  
With many a winding turn  
That leads us to who knows where  
Who knows when  
But I'm strong  
Strong enough to carry him  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother…

So on we go  
His welfare is of my concern  
No burden is he to bear  
We'll get there  
For I know  
He would not encumber me  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother…

If I'm laden at all  
I'm laden with sadness  
That everyone's heart  
Isn't filled with the gladness  
Of love for one another…

It's a long, long road  
From which there is no return  
While we're on the way to there  
Why not share  
And the load  
Doesn't weigh me down at all  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother…

He's my brother  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother…"

By the time Miles is finished, Bass' cheeks are wet. He sniffles under the tears, trying very hard not to bawl aloud.

Jeremy, too, looks humbled. He is sitting next to Ollie, resting against her. When the song finishes, he sneaks an arm around her to hug her in close in thanks again.

"I… have something in my eye," Jeremy says, trying not to laugh and cry at once. "Shit, man, you can't half sing. Why didn't you tell us?"

Miles shrugs. "Never came up, I guess. Used to play a bit when we were on tour. Though… usually less polite stuff…"

Bass' laugh is choked. "A lot less polite, and not for delicate lady ears."

"Oh, Bass, my ears can take it," Jeremy insists with a camp bent wrist to the chest. "Don't worry about this old queen."

"And I was a boy for five months," Ollie points out. "I no longer have delicate lady ears. Not after being around you lot."

"…Fine," Miles concedes. "But only if Jeremy promises to play something more sensible when I'm done."

He strums the strings again, a dramatic flicker in his eyes. "Here you go, then. This one is all about a bear called Yogi…"

***

It's a good few more days before Bass is well enough to travel. At long last, they pack up the camp and set off back towards civilisation. Their first port of call needs to be with Calder, outside Chicago. Miles… wants to look the man in the eyes, and work out whether he was in league with the spy, Carter, or if it was just an unfortunate coincidence.

So they ride out, taking it slowly for Bass' benefit, following the route out of the forest (glad to see the back of it) and onto the road again.

Which is when, out of the blue, Ollie says, "…There's… ah… something else you should know…"

"If you tell me you're actually a boy who pretended to be a girl pretending to be a boy, this is when I will hit you," Bass says, turning to face her with a smile.

"Uh… no," Ollie says. "No. This is…"

She clears her throat. She's wanted to tell them all for a fortnight, but with everything else going on… it hasn't seemed right.

"…Look. The night we all met up in the forest, after… after Miles had fixed your side… he was talking to Jeremy in the tent and I went out because I heard something. When we'd got back, we'd had to tether the horses really quickly and Ferrari… well, Ferrari got loose. And when he did, he… uh… he sort of… uhm… got intimate. With Lamborghini."

Bass pulls Lambo to a halt. "He… what?"

"Oh shit," Jeremy says. Especially because Miles and Bass are riding close together.

"What are you saying, Olivia?" Bass never uses her Sunday name. Ever.

Ollie clears her throat again. "Miles' horse had sex with your horse, Bass," she says, plain as day. "And though I can't be sure, there's a good chance she may be pregnant."

Miles stares. And stares. And then collapses into laughter.

"MILES MATHESON YOUR HORSE RAPED MY HORSE AND I AM GOING TO KILL YOU. AND YOUR HORSE."

"Whoa… calm down Bass," Jeremy tries.

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN, HIS HORSE HAS DEFILED MY HORSE'S HONOUR. IT NEEDS SATISFYING. HOW DARE YOU LAUGH? HOW VERY DARE YOU?!"

"…Because it's fucking hilarious?" Miles tries, even as he backs off just a little. "I'm sure Ferrari was nothing but a gentleman…"

"Well… ah… Lambo didn't seem too unhappy about it…" Ollie says, trying to lessen the reaction. "I didn't stand a chance of separating them, though. I just had to… wait."

"SHE WAS BEING RAPED. OF COURSE SHE DIDN'T ENJOY IT. SHE IS A GOOD GIRL. SHE DIDN'T WANT THAT NASTY LITTLE SHIT MAKING HER PREGNANT, DID YOU LAMBO?" Bass glowers down at the horse between his legs, who whickers obliviously. "Wait… if she's pregnant should I even be riding her?!"

"MAYBE THEY'RE IN LOVE," Miles retorts, glowering.

"Oh, she'll be fine for a while," Ollie says. "She won't start to show for several months, and you can keep riding her up until the last few. So, you know… don't worry?"

"SHE DOES NOT LOVE YOUR BEAST," Bass yells back. Then he squints at Ollie. "…how likely is it that I'm a grandfather?"

"Uh… well, pretty likely, to be honest," Ollie says, trying to break it to him gently. "It will be a while before I can tell one way or another, but… I would start thinking of names. You know, just in case."

"I hate you all and I want you all to die in a ditch," Bass replies, kicking Lambo off to ride ahead of everyone.

"…that went better than expected," Jeremy muses.

"…No, it really didn't," Miles replies. "It's not my fault my horse is… oh fuck it…"

"On the plus side, if she does have a foal… you just wait," Ollie adds, sotto voce. "He'll probably think it's adorable."

"I can still hear you," Bass snarks. "Shut the fuck up."

"…I'm not convinced." Jeremy trots closer to Ollie. "And do you even know how to… you know. With the baby?"

"I've… helped with it before," Ollie replies. "It's been a while, but… I can probably do it. I'll need some assistance, but I know what to do."

The very thought of helping to birth a foal with these three… it really defies comprehension. Sometimes the universe has a warped sense of humour.

"You don't have to… you know… go in and yank it out, do you?" Miles asks.

Ollie blinks at him, a mixture of horror and amusement. "…No, Miles, not usually. That's cows."

"LAMBO, COVER YOUR EARS. MILES, STOP TALKING ABOUT MY HORSE'S VAJAYJAY."

"We should probably change the subject, dudes." Jeremy looks pale.

"…You people all need so much help, you know that?" Ollie says, shaking her head.

"Fine," Miles concedes, and immediately searches around for something else to say. This is not easy, due to the sudden unwelcome mental images he's still left with. "…When we get back to Calder's place, let me do the talking," he manages, finally. "I'll know from how he reacts to us whether he set us up or had no idea that guy was luring us into an ambush."

"You… you think he did?" Biting his lip, Jeremy tries to work out if he does or not. Calder seemed… nice, actually. But maybe that's the point.

"Honestly? I don't think so," Miles says. "But I need to be _sure_. The last thing we want is spies in our ranks right from the start."

"How will you tell?"

"I told you… I'll look him in the eyes. And I'll know."

"Okay. And if he did…?"

"I'll deal with it."

There is great finality in his tone at this, though it stays level.

"Okay." Jeremy can tell that's the end of that discussion.

"I'm going to call the baby Subaru," Bass calls out from ahead. "And I still hate you."

"You _named_ it already?" is Miles' reply. "Fuck, man, you need help."

"It's the only way I can cope with the pain." He's still riding ahead and refusing to turn around.

"It's a good name?" Jeremy tries to sound convincing. He fails miserably.

"Subaru will kick all your asses."

"…That remains to be seen," Miles says.

"Actually… he might be right," Ollie has to add, not quite able to stop herself. "Given the parentage… any foal those two produce will be quite an impressive cross."

"Even if he is born out of wedlock." Bass is certain the baby will be a boy. Certain.

"Uhm. Am I the only one weirded out by all of this?" Jeremy asks.

"No," Ollie says. "You're not. I'm weirded out too. You guys need a therapist or something."

"Find me one, then," Bass demands. "And I will talk to them until they try to take their own life."

" _Sebastian_ ," Ollie retorts, in Disapproving Voice. And then, because the conversation needs changing and because it's been weighing on her mind, she goes on, "Besides, I have a serious question. Last time Calder saw me… I was a boy. So… so… should I be a girl now?"

"Do… you want to be a girl?" Jeremy asks. "Because if not, we can still lie about it. In front of everyone else."

"And if you call me Sebastian again I will call you Olivia in front of anyone anyway," Bass snaps.

Ollie backs off from Bass rather more. "…I guess I should be," she says to Jeremy, a little softly. "I mean, I… I need to be again, don't I? Now you all know…"

Bass realises he was a bit of a dick. "I wouldn't really. If you didn't want me to." It's not really an apology, but it's close enough.

"I think you should, if you're comfortable with it. You know we all have your back, and you totally kick ass." Jeremy smiles at her. "You're strong enough. I know you are."

"He's right," Miles agrees. "Anyone messes with you and – if you can't do it yourself for some reason – we'll break their face. So. There you are."

"Uh… thanks, I think," Ollie replies. "Then… I'll do it.

It's like a strange weight off her shoulders. She was hiding to be safe… but now she has other ways to be.

"You… you should probably tell him?" Jeremy suggests. "Unless you don't want to, I mean. Not everything. Just… enough?"

"Just enough," Ollie agrees. "But no more." Hopefully not ever again. One and a half times was plenty.

"So… shall we start singing travelling songs? Before this conversation gets any weirder with how girly it is?"

"Jeremy, stop being a bitch!"

"Oh… go to Hell, Bass!"

It's a good job Bass doesn't have anything to throw.

***

When they get to the little village just outside Chicago where Calder lives, they head over to his house straight away. As they get closer, they can see that the man is outside in his garden, digging in his vegetable patch. He looks up as they approach, face breaking into an expression of surprise.

"Holy God, I thought you were dead!" he exclaims. "You said you'd be back in a few days, and that was over two weeks ago!"

Dismounting, Miles walks closer to Calder, his expression carefully level, but staring at the man with disconcerting intent. "We ran into trouble. The communiqué we got from that spy was a trap and Bass nearly got killed. We had to hole up in the forest until he was well enough to travel again."

Calder's eyes immediately flit over to find Bass. "I'm glad you made it out," he says. "We've been worried."

"Yeah, it will take more than that to kill me," Bass says, brushing it off. Even if it was pretty damn serious and still hurts.

"Good to know," Calder replies. "I take it… the plan didn't work?"

"No," Miles answers. "It didn't."

"And now… you're wondering if I helped set you up." Calder is not an idiot, after all, and he sees no reason to dance around the issue.

"Thought had crossed my mind," Miles confirms. "But from the look in your eyes… I don't think you did."

"From the look in my eyes? Jesus Christ, Miles, you scare me at times."

"Don't forget we were Marines," Bass points out. "We kind of have the monopoly on knowing when people are out to betray us to our deaths."

"…Uh, fair point," Calder agrees. He looks like he wants to take a step back, but is smart enough not to. "So… we're good?"

Miles nods. "We're good. Which brings me to our next point: we're mobilising."

"That may be for the best," Calder replies. "Especially because we received word a few days back – it took time to get here up the chain, but your people are getting better at passing messages along between the towns. Smithsville, south of Indiana? Where you said you'd set up another of your dojos? It was taken by Franklin's people several weeks back. I'm sorry to tell you this… but apparently it was something of a bloodbath."

"It… what? What happened? Tell us everything you know!" Bass sounds utterly frantic with worry. Behind him, Jeremy and Ollie shift nervously in their saddles.

Calder's face darkens. "Apparently Franklin's people found out you'd been there, and that you were starting to mobilise against them. They rode into Smithsville a week or so after you left and slaughtered everyone who fought back. Then they fortified the place and set up a garrison there. It's one of his towns now, flags and all."

"Fuck," Miles growls. "That miserable, fucking son of a bitch..!"

"We have to take it back," Bass insists. "We have to. We can't let him just… do this!"

"Damn fucking right we do," Miles replies. "This is it. This is where it starts. We get together everyone here who wants to join up, and we march south. We recce Smithsville, and we pick up our people in Vernon and Murton. And then? We storm that place all guns blazing and we don't stop until every one of that bastard's people is dead."

Calder nods. "Agreed," he says, clearly aware of the weight of what he's committing to. "I'll talk to our people. Find out how many of them are ready to do this."

"We need to go quickly. God knows what the people in that town are suffering. The ones still alive, that is." Bass drags his hand through his hair, wishing yet again that he'd taken the damn shot.

"What can we do to help speed it up?" Jeremy asks.

"Get together as many supplies as we can carry," Miles answers. "The less we have to stop en route, the better. And make sure everyone who comes with us is aware of what's at stake… and what's required when we get to Smithsville."

"Okay… Ollie, do you want to come with me?" Jeremy asks, forgetting that they were supposed to 'out' her.

Ollie hasn't even thought about it either, too caught up in worry for Smithsville. She knows what Franklin's people will do there. She _knows_. "Uh… yeah," she agrees, mind snapping back to the present.

Miles, meanwhile, turns back to Calder. "Come on," he says. "Let's start getting people together."

"Not just people," Calder points out. "The Militia."

"Yeah," Miles agrees. "The Militia."

***

In the end, about twenty of Calder's people agree to join them – with some others staying behind to protect the settlement. And thus, they set out, travelling via a couple of their own hidden weapons caches – from previous convoys hit during the journey north – to arm their fledgling militia as best as possible.

Without horses for everyone, it takes the best part of three weeks to make their way back down through Indiana, skirting around Indianapolis until they finally get close to Smithsville.

Opting to scope the place out quietly, Miles and Bass get a camp established some distance out, and then – along with Jeremy and Ollie – they head out on foot as night falls, to get their first look at the stricken town from the cover of the nearby forest.

Once they are close enough, Bass gives the signal for them to drop down and crawl the rest of the way. There is no point in being spotted spying. They move on in almost-silence until they're close enough to use the binoculars to get a better look at the defences. There's a simple wooden fence around the perimeter – nothing fancy, just a demarcation – and a patrol wandering irregularly but frequently around. They're armed.

"Looks pretty tight to me," Bass says, lowly, passing the binoculars to Miles.

"Yeah," Miles agrees, getting a good look. "That fence has gone up quick, but it will help them fortify the place if we just charge it."

"Maybe we do it differently," Ollie suggests, tone a little soft, as if not entirely sure that this is a conversation she should take an active role in. "Like… find a back door, or something…"

"There's bound to be one," Jeremy agrees. "I mean, we don't want to all run at the gate and get shot, do we? I've seen that on Lord of the Rings and that doesn't go well for the guys at the front of the line…"

"…you have a point but I do want to remind you we don't have any dwarves or elephants." Bass sighs. "We do have something which is likely better, though."

"Better than dwarves or elephants?" Ollie remarks. "We do?" A beat. "Is it elves?"

"Focus," Miles says, flatly, taking another look out at the town.

"We do." Bass tilts his head towards one of the bushes a little way off, and puts his finger to his lips to silence them all.

They lie still for a few moments longer.

"I know you're there, O'Donnell. I can tell your breathing a mile off," Bass calls, all of a sudden. "So well done on surrounding us – that was good fieldcraft – but next time try to be a little less noisy?"

"How did you know it was me?" The voice from the bushes is petulant. "We could have killed you."

"Some of us," Bass agrees, "but not me or Miles."

"You can try if you want, though," Miles says, flashing Bass a wry little grin. Then he picks up a pebble from the ground and flings it – seemingly haphazardly – into the bushes, eliciting a sudden yelp as it hits someone squarely on the head. "Or you could come out."

"Fine." There's another rustle and the younger O'Donnell – Anthony – emerges. He's covered in paint and leaves and he looks like he's spent at least the whole night skulking through the trees.

"Dude, have you been living out here since this happened?" Bass asks, narrowing his eyes. "You look like shit."

"…thanks," O'Donnell says, with a grin. "And yes. We have. We moved out here when it was… when we knew… and… and we've been our own little army since then."

"So I see…" Miles remarks, looking around. "What happened to your father?"

As it becomes clear it's safe, more people start to creep out of the forest.

"He… he didn't make it," Anthony says, biting his lip and trying to look… calm. "Right at the end. It's why we left. We knew without him… we knew we had to go."

"I'm sorry," Bass tells him. "He was a good man."

"We lost a lot of good men. And some women." He waves at the group around them. "We all took off and decided to wait until we could take the town back from those bastards."

"And you've been living out here all this time?" Miles asks, now looking around at the emerging group with rather more respect in his eyes.

"Yes. It's… it's not been easy but we used the things you taught us and we've not really had any problems. And… and we've had a bit of help from the people still inside the town. Franklin's men don't know we're out here, you see."

"This is the backdoor," Jeremy realises. "This is how we do it."

"Oh yeah," Miles agrees, expression lighting up. "This is definitely how we do it. We have to play it right, though. We've got people further south, in Vernon and Murton. We need to get them here before we do this. That way… we can take back Smithsville decisively, once and for all. That is… if you and your people are ready to join us?"

He looks at the younger O'Donnell as he speaks, wanting to be sure before they proceed.

O'Donnell pulls his sleeve up and twists his wrist around to show them. "We're ready. We made a promise out in these woods. We would do whatever it took. Whatever it took to get our home back and avenge the dead."

Behind him, there's a small flurry of movement as each of the assembled guerrillas bare their arms. Every one has a messy but clear M branded over their wrist.

"You… you did that?" Bass asks, dumbfounded. "Why?"

"To show how loyal we are to this cause."

Even Miles looks a little taken aback at first, but at the same time… this is good. This is really, really good. This isn't just loyalty, it's _fanaticism_ , and it's exactly the kind of rallying point they can use. "So I see," he says, his voice level and… pleased, almost. "Then we should get started. We have a lot to get done if we're going to retake Smithsville and show Franklin's people just who they're messing with."

Anthony O'Donnell rolls his sleeve back down. "You heard General Matheson!" he says, calling out to the men – who all snap to attention. "Let's get back to the camp and start taking back our home!"

***

The plan is simple. The bulk of the men – the _troops_ – remain secluded near Smithsville, preparing for what's to come. Miles then sends a small group with O'Donnell to Vernon, to collect everyone there who wants to join them – asking O'Donnell to see Tom Neville in person. Hoping that the man will want to be a part of this too.

Meanwhile, Miles and Bass, along with Jeremy and Ollie, head further south to Murton, in search of their people there – and of John Faber in particular.

The man certainly looks surprised, when they turn up on his doorstep, though gestures them inside. "I wondered if I'd ever see you again," he remarks.

"Well, we're glad you are," Bass replies, "even if it could be under much better circumstances. You heard about Smithsville?"

Faber's expression darkens. "I did. Word got through a while back. To be honest… I'm not sure why they haven't hit us, too. Maybe… Smithsville was more on their radar."

"The people there were… particularly enthusiastic," Miles replies. "We think that might have caught the attention of Franklin's people. But either way… we're doing something about it."

"I see," Faber says. "And you're here for the people who want to follow you?"

"We're hoping you're one of them." Bass rubs two fingers against his thumb. "We've got a group of the Smithsville boys who left before everyone was slaughtered. Got some good men from further north too, and we're going to get some from Vernon as well. We figure four lots of townsfolk and we'll retake and fortify and show Franklin he can't keep this up."

Faber's eyebrows go up. "Well. I must say, I'm impressed. So this army… no, militia? …of yours… really happened?" It's a rhetorical question, to cover the moment when he looks down, realising why they've turned up at his door. "And now… you're here for me."

Miles nods. "I know you didn't agree with us at first," he says. "But what we're doing… it's serious. And we could use someone like you. You'd be a key asset."

Faber folds his arms, pacing away a little, clearly thinking. It's a lot to ask, but… he also knows what's at stake. And they've proven they mean business. "No half measures, eh…" he murmurs, offhand, and then looks over at them. "I'll need to talk to Anita. But… I think it's time to start fighting back."

"It is," Bass agrees. "He's clearly not going to stop at what he's got already. And the sooner people learn they can stand up and fight him and his men, the better."

"And he's a bastard!" Jeremy blurts out.

Faber can't quite hold back a flash of a smile at this. "Yes," he says. "He is. So let's go get him."

***

Eventually – eventually – the proto-militia is once more encamped close to Smithsville, but far enough out that they won't catch the attention of Franklin's contingent there.

There's quite a number of them now – Calder's people, plus O'Donnell's, and the groups from Murton and Vernon – Tom Neville among them. Together, they formulate a plan for taking back the town.

It starts so simply. Miles, Bass, Jeremy and Ollie, along with O'Donnell and three of his men, make their way towards Smithville under cover of darkness, to rendezvous by the northern wall with O'Donnell's man on the inside.

"This guy better come through for us," Miles says to O'Donnell, as they draw close to the makeshift fence.

"Oh, he will. He's the best. It was hard to leave him behind, but we had to leave someone we could trust…" When they get close, O'Donnell calls softly. "Pssst… pssst… Chris… it's us…"

For a moment, there's nothing, and then one of the boards in the fence swings up, and a face looks out – another young man about O'Donnell's age, with flame-coloured hair and rather wide eyes.

"Keep your voice down," he hisses, softly. "There's patrols all over." But then his attention moves from O'Donnell to the group with him – and to Miles and Bass in particular. "Oh… Generals… I had no idea," he says, more carefully. "I didn't think… This way, this way."

"No, you're right," Bass says. "Just show us the way." He waves at Jeremy and Ollie to go in first, then sneaks in right behind them.

"We need to lay low for the night," O'Donnell whispers. "Can you find us somewhere?"

"Already got it sorted," Chris answers. "My place is too obvious, but my girlfriend's house is out of the way and they're not onto her. Plus she has a good-sized basement in case they do come knocking. Everyone follow me."

He leads the way through the darkened streets of Smithsville. The whole place has an odd hush about it; not the usual quiet of a town at rest, but something a little more sinister, as if the very buildings themselves know that talking would be dangerous.

They walk in silence until they get to the house, and when they do, everyone relaxes visibly.

"How is Mary?" O'Donnell asks. "Is she here?"

"I damn well hope so," Chris replies. "And yeah, she's good. Better once we get these bastards out of our town, though…"

He heads up the front steps and knocks softly on the door, three short taps, a pause, then two more. There's movement inside, and the door opens to reveal a young woman holding a baseball bat.

"Thank fuck," she hisses. "Get your ass in this house right now, Christopher, or I swear I'll… oh. Oh. It's tonight, then." This last part isn't a question, but a realisation as she sees the group lurking close to her boyfriend.

"Yeah," Miles says, softly but quickly. "It's tonight. Can we?"

"Yes, yes, of course, come in, come in," Mary says, waving them all through the door.

"We really appreciate you putting us up, Mary," O'Donnell says. "The Generals here came as soon as they heard. You should see how many people they brought!"

"It's the least we could do," Bass says, deferentially. "I mean… if it wasn't for us…"

"If it wasn't for you, we'd have no chance of living free," O'Donnell cuts in. "So you just tell us how to win this and we will do you proud and show those bullies their time is up."

"For now… we sit tight," Miles says. "When sunrise approaches, we attack the main garrison post in the centre of town. By that point, our people on the outside will have moved into position – and when they hear our attack beginning, they'll charge. We'll have Franklin's men caught between an attack from the walls and an attack from within, and that should be enough to let us overwhelm them."

"And if you can get enough people to breach the perimeter fence – in as many places as possible – then we won't be choked down when our men arrive," Bass suggests. "Is that doable?"

"Hell, yeah," Chris says. "There's still plenty of us in here who want these bastards out. I'll get word to them whilst it's still dark. It'll take me a while, but I can have them ready to hit the fence from the inside as soon as you launch your attack on the main garrison. That sound good?"

"It does," Miles agrees. "How many are we talking?"

"At least half a dozen," Chris replies. "Maybe a couple more if they're in a daring mood."

"Is there anything we should know? Any ringleader we need to take out?" Bass asks.

"Yeah," says Mary, her expression darkening a little. "The guy in charge of Franklin's people here. His name is Nicholas Green. He's… not a nice man, but a lot of the other troops are very reliant on him. Most of them haven't been soldiers for long, and he's the one holding them all together. Take him out… and it will hit them hard. Plus, you'll have _my_ undying gratitude."

"Do they have a stronghold?" Jeremy asked. "Or… are we going to get him in his house or something?"

"He's based at the main garrison post," Chris tells them. "When we attack… he'll be there, trust me."

"We need to make it big," Miles says. "Something that will be very obvious from outside the town, so our people know when to attack." He pauses, as if mulling over an idea.

"…Do you have any accelerant?"

"What, you mean like petrol?" Chris replies. "Yeah, I can get it."

"Good," Miles says, nodding. "Because I intend to burn that building to the ground. Should be obvious enough."

"And everyone outside will see. They'll be torn between fighting the fire and fighting us…" Bass approves of this plan.

"You guys are geniuses!" O'Donnell claps his hands, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "I can't wait to get our revenge on them. Especially that rat bastard."

"Seconded," says Chris. Because. O'Donnell isn't the only one who lost someone close when the town was taken from them. And then he takes a deep breath. "Right. I'll head out, get the word to our people about taking out the fence, and then find as much petrol as I can." He pauses, looking carefully at Bass and Miles. "That's… if you approve, Generals?"

Miles is – for a fleeting second – surprised by the question, but he doesn't let it show. "Of course," he says, nodding.

"We'll win," Bass says, and claps Chris above the elbow. "You tell them that, too. Tell them we've brought four armies down to set things right. And all of them are hungry for blood."

Chris grins, like a man finally offered hope after so long in the dark. "Yes, sir," he says, brightly, and turns to head out.

"You be careful," Mary whispers, gripping his arm.

"I will," he promises.

Then he slips out the front door, and he's gone.

***

The sky overhead is lit with the first promises of dawn as the group head out from their safehouse, making their way quietly through the town, towards the garrison building near the centre. They're very much armed, and each carrying a couple of glass bottles filled with petrol.

Staying in the shadows, they take up positions all around the building, waiting for Miles' signal. And when it comes… they light the molotov cocktails all at once, flinging them through the windows.

There's a lot of crashes, a number of shouts. And very rapidly, a great deal of fire.

The first man to run out of the building is shot clean in the head and he goes down without a word of protest. Bass looks over at Jeremy with respect.

"Good shot."

"Thanks."

But they don't get long before the next few come out, and now they've heard gunshots they're more circumspect. They hug cover as they come out, looking to see where their enemy is lying in wait for them.

"For Smithsville!" Miles shouts, knowing the effect the rallying cry will have – on both sides.

And the shooting breaks out. The attackers have a definite advantage – given that their chosen cover is not on fire – but they lack the numbers to simply overwhelm the garrison straight away.

"For Smithsville!" O'Donnell cries out in response, the other locals echoing the cry a moment after.

The fire starts to climb higher, licking out through the windows, and the occupiers are forced further and further out of the building. Some are taken down as easy pickings, but someone – Green from the way they follow him – yells an order and a huge group of them push out en masse for the nearest building. The ones on the outside of the group get hit but are dragged along by the ones inside.

"After them!" Miles orders, gesturing. Wishing he had a few spare molotovs right now. Something to bear in mind for next time.

They switch their focus to the building that Green and his men are now rapidly fortifying. Gunshots echo off the buildings as the fighting rages on. Someone falls from a window as Miles gets an unexpectedly good shot in, although moments later one of their own people – one of O'Donnell's men – goes down as well, just off to his right.

But eventually, in the distance, there's the sound of a great deal more gunfire and shouting, and Miles can't help flashing Bass a smile. "Cavalry's here," he says, brightly.

It's entirely possible he's enjoying this a little too much.

"Now we really show them who's boss," Bass replies. "They won't know what's hit them." His eyes are bright with the fire of battle, and he spins out of cover to take down another straggler with a well-placed bullet. All they have to do is hold out long enough for the troops to arrive.

Arrive they do. With Faber at the head, the largest part of their forces charge up screaming bloody murder.

Even the normally-reserved Faber looks fired-up. "You boys need a hand?" he asks, dropping down behind cover close by.

"Nah," Miles says, with a grin. "We're doing just fine. Though I guess you can join in, if you like."

"Damn right I like," Faber answers. "I just spent an entire night crawling across dark fields. I could use the distraction."

"The guy – that one – with the red shirt… he's the ringleader," Bass explains. "We need to take him down. When there's enough of your guys here, if you lay down covering fire then we'll take a group in and decimate them from the inside. If they can't come to the windows to aim then we stand a chance…"

Faber nods. "Got you," he agrees, and moves along to start shouting orders to his men.

"Jeremy, Ollie, help hold the line out here," Miles calls. Wanting to know they're safer for this part. "O'Donnell, you come with us."

He gestures in a number of O'Donnell's men as well, and together they start moving along cover, closer to the building – whilst the fire still rages in the garrison post, across the square.

Bass flattens himself to the wall beside the door when they get there. This is the most dangerous part: entering. The door is shut but he knows there could be any number of people behind it. His heart leaps into his mouth as he waits – eyes on Miles – until he's sure Miles agrees it's time.

And just like that they both know it is. Bass yanks open the door and shoots around it, trying to clear a path in for their little group.

Miles shoots too – in the opposite direction, of course – and hears a satisfying thud as someone goes down. After a second, they burst through the door, firing again and again, needing to clear out the room before they can regroup and move on.

Once the last of Franklin's people falls, Miles gestures to their little team. "Search the building. Take out everyone you find."

"O'Donnell," Bass calls out. "You come with us." He knows the man needs to do this. He knows he's been waiting for long weeks for this. He knows O'Donnell won't feel at peace until the man responsible for everything that's happened here is dead… and preferably by his hands.

"Yes, General!" He runs up behind Bass, all too happy to follow his orders.

They push further in – splitting into two groups – and Bass, Miles and Anthony find the stairs first. They shoot their way up, working further on and in.

"Stand down!" Miles tries shouting – even though he has no intention of letting any of Franklin's people out of this alive.

"Go to Hell!" someone replies, and there's another burst of gunfire.

But it's obvious who has the upper hand now. They clear out the hallway at the top of the stairs, and then Miles kicks down the nearest door.

"Stand down or we kill every last man!" Bass echoes. No one volunteers, though, and three more men die.

Then it's the last room. The last one, and they know he's in there. They just know.

"Do it," Bass says to O'Donnell. "Do it for your father."

Anthony nods. He braces himself then he kicks down the door himself – gun already forwards – and with a scream he empties out the chamber and magazine into any moving creature on the other side.

And when his gun clicks on empty… there's silence, broken only as the last figure in the room beyond drops to his knees and slumps forward in a pool of blood, dead.

It's Nicholas Green.

Miles puts a hand on O'Donnell's shoulder. "Nice shot," he says, softly.

"I… shit…" Anthony staggers back, his hands lowering slowly to cradle the gun before him, shaking from head to toe with the adrenaline.

"You did it," Bass adds. "He's dead."

O'Donnell just… breathes for a long moment, before numbly walking over to the dead Green. He stares down at him. "…I did." He kicks the gun away from the corpse, then looks back at his Generals with bright eyes. "I did."

"Yeah, you did," Miles replies. "And out there, our people – _your_ people – are taking back this town. Feels good, doesn't it?"

It does to him, certainly. After what happened at Chicago – the attack, and finding out the awful truth about Ollie – Miles has been desperate for a victory. For a chance to make Franklin hurt. And whilst he knows they still have a long way to go… a start is a start.

And this is looking like a good one.

"We should… we should go tell everyone?" O'Donnell looks a little bit lost. He's been waiting for this for so long that he hasn't actually thought about what comes next.

"I think you should tell your men," Bass says, kindly. "I think you should hold his shirt above your head and prove to them all that we did it."

"A victory like this, and they'll follow you anywhere," Miles adds, aware of the double-meaning in this statement. He knows O'Donnell – and thereby his men – will follow them to the ends of the Earth now. Knows they're the backbone this fledgling militia needs.

"Not me," O'Donnell points out. " _You_." He clicks the safety uselessly back on, slinging the hot gun away into his holster. Then he snaps sharply to a soldier's stance. "Generals… Smithsville… I… I can't even…"

"It's okay, soldier. We know. Now come on, it's time to reclaim your home," Bass says, and he smiles at both him and Miles. Yes. Today has been a good day.

***

That evening, with Smithville liberated, the people and the fledgling militia gather together to celebrate. There's soon a good supply of food and drink in the central square – a couple of streets away from the now burnt-out garrison building, which is still smouldering, sending a plume of smoke into the growing darkness.

At the centre of it all, Miles and Bass are getting a lot of attention – but the crowd parts as Jeremy and Ollie turn up, knowing how important they are to their two Generals.

Ollie beams, knowingly. Now that the battle is over, she's feeling better than she has in a long time. "We have a surprise for you," she says.

"Is it more alcohol?" Bass asks, sitting up from his sprawl over Miles. "Because more alcohol is always welcome."

"No… but I think you'll still like it," Jeremy answers. "You should come with us."

Miles grins, and gets to his feet – whoa, how much has he even had already? – before offering Bass a hand up. They follow Jeremy and Ollie to the edge of the square – a large amount of the crowd coming along too – until they can see down the main road.

Ollie points at the flagpole above the town hall – the same flagpole where Franklin's standard had been flying earlier, and from which it had been unceremoniously removed when the fighting was over. Now, there's a new flag flying there – obviously makeshift, but clear nonetheless.

It's their M.

Bass makes a choked noise and stares over at Jeremy and Ollie, his eyes suspiciously bright. "You… you did that?"

"It was Ollie's idea," Jeremy shrugs. "She thought it was about time."

"I think it's perfect," O'Donnell says. "And the more flags with that on, the happier I will be."

"I… wow. It is. It is perfect." Bass doesn't know where to look next. He keeps staring at it, then at all of them.

Miles grips his shoulder. "It really is," he agrees. And since they've got so much attention, why waste the opportunity to seal the deal on even more hearts and minds? Not that it's been all that difficult thus far. "And O'Donnell is right. The more places we liberate from Franklin; the more towns that can run up that flag in place of his… the better. We know what he does. We know what he _condones_. Will we stand for it?"

"No!" quite a lot of the people shout.

"No!" O'Donnell agrees. "So who says we follow Generals Monroe and Matheson in kicking them out? Who's with me?"

The shout of support is even louder this time.

Bass closes his eyes and listens to the wave of voices. Between it and the alcohol, he feels a little dizzy.

Miles is feeling it too. The power-rush is even more intoxicating than the Scotch – and the Scotch is pretty damn good. Actually, _everything_ is pretty damn good right about now.

The group gradually makes its way back to the square where they've been sitting – and where the alcohol is. As they walk, Miles drapes an arm around Bass' shoulders, and – why the fuck not? – Jeremy's too. Because he can.

Bass rests his head on Miles as they walk, his hand sneaking around his waist. He's surprised to find Jeremy's hand there, too, and he gives it a little squeeze. He peers around and sees Ollie is holding Jeremy's other hand, and they share a little smile.

"I think we should find a home for the night, don't you?" Bass asks.

"Tony found you a really big house," Jeremy replies. "It's a nice one. I think it might even be his."

"Perfect," Miles says. "I haven't slept in a proper bed in weeks."

He turns, and adds, in a whisper to Bass, "Not that I'm feeling a _bit_ like sleep…"

That sends a shudder all the way down Bass' spine, and he turns to nip at Miles' earlobe. "Good. Because I'm not tired. And I don't think I will be for some time yet. So you better be prepared to scream 'for Smithsville' a few hundred times more…"

"Really?" Miles replies, still a whisper, and thank _goodness_ the party is too loud for them to be overheard. "I was thinking of going with 'fuck _yes_ , General Monroe,' but I'm always open to suggestions…"

Bass arches up and bites at Miles' jaw. Hard. "You know, seeing all those Ms written all over O'Donnell's guys has got me hard for you. Who knew I could be so sexually attracted to a single letter?" He shouldn't be saying this in such close proximity to the other two, but he can't help it. He lets go of Jeremy's hand to grab Miles' ass. Hard. "Send the kids to bed, Miles."

" _Fuck yes, General Monroe_ ," Miles breathes in his ear, with a shameless grin.

And then he turns to the crowd. No one is going to be fooled as to what's really going on, but he's sure none of them will be dumb enough to say anything. "Well," he announces, brightly, "on that note, I think it's about time we turned in for the night. Long day, and all."

Jeremy extricates himself carefully from Miles' side. He knows full well what's about to happen anyway. "Yes, and Ollie and I should really turn in."

Bass is too punch-drunk and horny to even process it. His hand is still gripping Miles' ass. "In the morning we can sort everything out. But you all did great, so you go drink and celebrate." And leave me to fuck my boyfriend into screaming oblivion, he adds in is head.

Ever blessed – or cursed – with being the sensible one, Ollie grips Miles' hand to get his attention. "That street over there," she whispers, gesturing. "Third house down, blue door." So that they don't just wander into the first house they see, given that they don't actually know where they're going.

Miles grins at her. "Thanks," he says. "Try not to get Jeremy painted too many interesting colours this time."

Ollie grins back. "No promises…" she replies.

Bass steers Miles as firmly as he can towards said house. His vision is tunnelling to nothing now, and he wants him over the threshold as soon as possible. "You're shameless," he purrs, even as his hand slides under the waistband of his lover's trousers, fingers trailing into the crease between his ass-cheeks. "You know they all know I'm going to fuck you, don't you?"

"Yep," Miles answers, happily. He looks it, too. Victory in combat, a liberal amount of alcohol, and a whole load of people pledging allegiance to their banner will do that to a man. "But they're going to have to get used to it. If they want to be in our militia, they're going to see this sort of thing a lot, given our inability towards 'subtle.'"

He looks down the street, spotting the house in question – lamps already lit in the windows – and grins. Jeremy and Ollie look after them far too well.

"I nearly had to take you at the flagpole, you know. Hands wrapped around the shaft as I reamed you open…" Bass grabs Miles by the shoulders, slamming him ass-first into the door that opens readily to let them in. Pushing him until the door bangs into a wall, and Bass surges up to kiss him with the fervour of battle, knee between his legs, tongue demanding entrance.

'I wouldn't have objected if you had,' Miles tries to say, but it's impossible with a mouthful of Bass' tongue, so the words just sort of dissolve into a series of thoroughly appreciative growls. He manages to kick the door shut, hands sliding down to grip his lover's ass and hold him in as close as possible, kissing back for all he's worth.

Fuck, it's been too long since they had a night like this.

Bass fucks Miles' mouth with his tongue, obscenely slow and messy, scratching himself on Miles' teeth and prodding hard enough to make the other man jump. All decorum out the window as he tears at the front of Miles' shirt, intent on having him naked as soon as his fingers work out how. His fingernails draw pink lines over the planes of his stomach as he bares it, and he only stops kissing him to finish yanking the shirt off. He pauses for half a heartbeat to stare at him – eyes all wild and hair haloing in the lamplight – and then he grabs Miles' throat between his teeth and lips and bites down _hard_ as he shoves both hands into Miles' pants and squeezes his dick through the fabric of his boxers – pleased to find him hard and already leaking.

" _Fuck_!" Miles cries out, at the onslaught, dizzy with need and strenuously doubting they're going to make it up the stairs to the bedroom. "Yes, yes, like that, like you mean it, like you really _fucking_ mean it."

He knows Bass doesn't need a shred more motivation, but that's no reason to withhold it all the same – not when it means he can start yanking the other man's shirt off too, fingers going to find the mark on the back of his shoulder and scrape over it.

The memory of pain and bliss just short-circuit Bass' brain, and the moment collapses down to another – the memory of old battles and victories and the smell of blood and the taste of him and the feel of a knife – and Bass moves like a blur, hands on his shoulders and he kicks Miles' legs from under him and sends him tumbling to the floor with Bass holding on to make sure he goes down. It winds them both for a moment, but Bass is prepared for it and he grabs for the mirroring mark on Miles' shoulder and _bites_ over it, scratching tendrils of blood from Miles' forearms as he straddles his lover's hips. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It feels so wonderfully good that, for a moment, Miles can hardly breathe; too caught up in the need and the thrill and the _goddamn amazing_ spikes of pain in amidst it all.

" _Yes_ ," he growls, when he finally can. "Oh _fuck_ , yes, Bass, you feel so good… come on and fuck my brains out, you magnificent bastard…"

It isn't so much that he wants to surrender – he doesn't, not really, though he's not going to push for dominance all the same. It's the force he's craving; the fight, the _pain_. He needs it so much his blood is burning, bright and undeniable.

Bass' hands find Miles' wrists and he pulls them hard over his head, pressing them down and pushing his thumbs into the sensitive flex of bones. It will hurt, and that's the point. He pulls back just enough to stare into Miles' eyes. "You're going to have to ask me nicer than that, soldier." Using the knees on either side of him, he grinds his ass hard into Miles' crotch, trapping his cock between them and teasing it with the ass he's not going to let him inside. Not tonight. Well. Probably.

The spark in his eyes hits Miles hard, like a fresh shot of alcohol. He nods, staring back, trying to keep his voice level when he answers. Trying not to make the begging _quite_ so obvious. "Please, General," he says. "Fuck me. I'm yours. Fuck me so hard I scream the roof off… all for you."

Bass stares into Miles' eyes – holding him down with nothing but that – and sits back. He lets go of Miles' wrists but only so he can unfasten his belt and slide it from the loops. He leans down and wraps it carefully around Miles' wrists. "I'm going to," he promises, his voice a growl by his ear. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll barely be able to stand to attention tomorrow…" Wrists tied, he sits back and puts one hand on the M mark, the other palming over the rising bulge in his fatigues.

"Beg me again."

" _Please_ ," Miles gasps, the sudden wrap of tight leather around his wrists making his head spin all over again. "Please, General, take me. Fuck me senseless the way only you ever could."

 _And please don't make me wait_ , his eyes beg, in growing desperation. _Please_.

Bass' eyes burn with purpose, and he grabs the thick line of Miles' cock through the fabric of his fatigues. He grips it and strokes it – using the rough fabric to torment him – mouth dry at the tone he can hear. "No matter if a million men have our letter scorched into their hides… _you_ are the only one that matters…" He frees his knife from his hip, pressing it point-first into the scar. "And every time you see a flag with our names on, I want you to remember my dick in you. Owning you. Loving you." Still he doesn't move. The minute he moves he's going to just fuck him senseless, and he wants Miles babbling before that.

"I'll remember," Miles promises him, meaning every goddamn syllable. "I'll never forget."

The touch of the knife – even so light and minor in comparison to what it has been in the past – is enough to knock the whole world sideways, and it makes his breath catch for a long second, right before the words start to tumble out. "Fuck me," he begs, again. "Fuck me like you mean it. Because I'm yours. Because I'll write your name across the countryside just to prove it. Please, General, _please_."

Bass snicks a line up – stinging but not cutting – "Yes. You will remember." Down. "And this wound will never heal." Up. "Because you're mine." Pause. Down. "My family."

The knife stays in place, and Bass starts to unfasten Miles' trousers and shove them down past his hips.

" _Yes_ ," Miles whispers – in both agreement and appreciation. "Yes. All yours. Always." He stares up, eyes dark with pleasure, mind clearly more than half gone already – but there's still great lucidity in his voice as he adds, "I love you."

"I love you too." The knife is put to one side, and Bass pulls Miles' boxers and trousers off in one go. He fumbles in his pocket for the lube, and tugs his own fly down and pulls himself free. He slicks himself just enough, before grabbing Miles' hips and pulling him upwards so he can settle behind them. "Are you ready?"

" _Yes_ ," Miles says again, the desperation creeping back in. So much raw need, burning in his blood, held aloft by the thrill of victory and the rush of alcohol… but all really down to this man, this man who is his world. Who he'd kill and die and _live_ for, all without hesitation.

"Then for you… _anything_ …" Bass lines up as best he can, then pushes Miles down onto his cock as he pushes up. He has to go a little slower than he likes because he didn't get Miles ready, but he also knows his man can and will take it. Take it all. His eyes close at the tight, warm grip to his cock and he has to bite his lip to stifle the groan. "Call… call me… call me General Monroe again…"

The slight sting at the rough intrusion only makes it better; the thrill of pain mixing with the heady shot of pleasure that first penetration provokes. Miles gasps, eyes unfocusing for a moment – the hands above his head, which he's been holding pretty tense up until now, dropping to the floor with a crack.

"I'm all yours, General Monroe," he says, only too happy to oblige. " _All_ yours."

The rank just… makes everything so much hotter. So much hotter. Bass can barely breathe because it just… on Miles' lips… He grabs those hips and goes to one knee, bending Miles double and slamming down into him with all his weight. "You were so magnificent. All those people following you. All those people _dying_ for your orders… do you know how fucking hot that makes me? Do you know how good you look with an army behind you? Jesus Christ, Miles…"

"The feeling," Miles manages, every slam sending him further and further out of his mind and into the wonderful hinterlands beyond, "is mutual. And even if I wasn't doing all this because it's right… I'd do it just for how fucking _incredible_ it is."

"You'd wage a war just to get me to fuck you?" Bass sounds amused. Amused as all hell. He drops onto his hands and knees, just using his hips to slam into him. So he can be closer to his face… "You deviant."

"Also for the power rush," Miles adds, expression lighting up all the more. "And because you look like perfection incarnate when you're armed and bloody…"

Bass can't resist that. He grabs Miles' cock and starts to jerk him off hard and fast, laughing slightly crazily. "I fucking love you. I love you so fucking much. You better come screaming my name…" He slams his hand down hard enough to thud his wrist against Miles' belly, almost hard enough to bruise. "I'll take over Canada for you. I'll take over the whole damn _world_."

It's too much, now. Far, far too much, and wonderfully so. For a moment, the furious onslaught has Miles hovering on the edge of bliss, and then with an almost wounded cry he's coming fiercely hard, bucking up into Bass' hand as he does – and making good on both the request and his earlier promise at the same time. "Fuck _yes_ , General Monroe!" he yells. "Yours! _Yours_!"

Bass keeps on stroking him as long as he dares – tugging and twisting and struggling for purchase as Miles spurts hot and sticky and happy all over his hand. The hoarseness in his voice, the colour in his cheeks… he bends down and pushes his tongue back in Miles' mouth, grabbing his hips again with one clean and one messy hand and pounding him over and over until he can't. He just can't. And with a half-breath to Miles' mouth he's coming just as furiously hard deep inside him.

" _Yes_ ," Miles breathes, against Bass' lips, the last lingering shivers of his own climax mixing with the feeling of Bass coming too, right where he belongs. When it's all over, Miles drops back, breathing hard, just enjoying the closeness for a moment. "Love you," he whispers; warm, sated, right.

Even though he doesn't want to, Bass collapses on top of Miles, panting and exhausted. And yes, they didn't even make it out of the hall. Which is sort of a new low – high? – even for them.

"Fuck… fuck but I needed that…"

"Me too," Miles agrees, lifting his still-bound hands to wrap lightly over Bass, holding onto him. "Fuck, you feel good. I never get over how much I need you."

"That's good. I'd hate for you to get bored." Bass decides if they're staying here for a while they might as well be comfortable, and with some effort he pulls back and rolls them to their sides. Nose up against his temple… breathing him in deep. "Shit… we made a mess of Tony's floor."

Miles curls in close. "Yeah," he agrees, sounding far less concerned about this than he should, "we did. And we have to walk more if we want to sleep in an actual bed."

"There's a couch not far… but a bed would probably be more comfortable…" Bass still doesn't sound all that convinced, though.

"Yeah," Miles agrees again, still half out of his head but very happy about it. "Plus we deserve it. But… in a moment. Don't want to move yet."

"No. I don't think my legs work. I think…" He laughs. "I think you broke me. Damn."

"Ooops," Miles says, thoroughly unapologetic. "Ah well. You'll just have to stay here…" He holds Bass in tighter.

A hand through his hair, and Bass bumps noses with Miles. "You are a bad, bad man, Miles Matheson. I hope you're going to kiss it better…?"

Miles appears to give this a moment's wholly unnecessary thought. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I am. And I will…"

"…wait… the other two are going to another house, right?" Bass is suddenly struck with the realisation that they might walk in at any moment.

"I think so." A beat, and the barest flicker of guilt. "I hope so." Now Miles stops to think about it, he's not actually sure. His mind has been on other things up to now. "Maybe we should move… just in case."

"Yeah. Uh." Bass reluctantly crawls back off Miles, then pushes up to his knees. He holds a hand out for his lover. "C'mon. In case we scar Ollie for life…"

Miles takes his hand and lets himself be pulled upright. "I think maybe we already did…"

***

The next morning – somewhat hungover and very much in favour of food – Miles and Bass head back out to the central square, where the townspeople are providing breakfast to the soldiers. Many of them look like they've had good nights of their own and, though more subdued than the evening before, the atmosphere is still bright.

Miles and Bass go over to join the table near the centre of the square, where Jeremy and Ollie are already sitting with O'Donnell and Faber.

"Still alive, I see," Ollie says, with a knowing little grin.

"If Franklin's goons can't kill us, nothing can," Bass answers, sliding in beside her and stealing food from her plate.

Jeremy slaps at Bass' hands. "There's enough for everyone!"

"Yes, and anything you guys want is yours," O'Donnell tells them. "Well. Except our women."

"Not likely to be a problem…" Ollie mutters, knowing full-well that their two Generals have likely spent the night screwing like deranged, alcohol-fuelled bunnies. And sort of happy for them, given how much they've had to deal with of late.

"How are the troops this morning?" Miles asks, helping himself to food from the platters in the centre.

"In good spirits," Faber answers. "I have to hand it to you… yesterday's victory was an excellent rallying point."

"Well, it wasn't what we would have asked for, but I'll take it being a victory on more than one front as it happened…" Bass decides he can behave and stop stealing food, even as he shoots Jeremy a dirty look.

"So what's your plan now?" O'Donnell asks. "I mean… this isn't 'it', right?"

"Oh, this is only the beginning," Miles confirms. "We've proven what we can do, but we have a long way to go before we finally take down the man responsible for all this… and for so much more."

He's staring fiercely at Ollie as he speaks, and though it scares her a little – and hurts to remember – she appreciates the sentiment all the same.

"We build this militia up," Miles goes on. "We move from town to town, recruiting who we can, fortifying settlements as we go. We work our way east… and we don't stop until Franklin's entire army falls, and everyone is safe again."

"I'm coming," O'Donnell says. "You can count on that. And a lot of my people will come, too."

Bass nudges his foot against Miles', under the table. "We were hoping you would say that."

"We were," Miles agrees. "You're a good soldier, and your people are a credit to you."

"I'm with you too," Faber says, somewhat more carefully. "Much as you can be a little hot-headed, I believe in what you're trying to do. And someone has to be your voice of reason, after all." He's almost grinning as he says this.

"Oh wow," Jeremy says, bouncing in his chair. "We're going to be a real army! I mean militia! Are we going to have ranks and things?"

Bass looks over to Miles. "I guess we're going to have to start…?"

"I think we are," Miles agrees. "We'll need to work it out. Get a system in place."

"Yes, _Generals_ ," Ollie says, with a grin. "You should." Hope really is infectious. She lifts her cup. "To the militia."

"The militia!" they echo.

And it's begun.

***

**TWO YEARS AFTER THE BLACKOUT**

**XENIA, OHIO**

In a field outside the town of Xenia, a swathe of militia tents cover the landscape, circled around the old and now-abandoned farmstead that their Generals are currently staying in.

Only, tonight, said Generals – plus Captains Baker and Fischer – aren't in the farmhouse. They're in the barn. And the atmosphere is more than a little tense.

"Is… are you sure? Don't we need hot water and towels?" Bass asks, fretting and pacing next to Lamborghini. The other horses are tethered at the far end of the barn, but Lambo is the focus of all their attention. "And… drugs? Shouldn't there be drugs?"

"Not usually, no," Ollie says, trying to keep her focus in the midst of this growing insanity. She's known it was coming for a while – ever since they were sure that Lamborghini was, indeed, pregnant – but that doesn't make this part any easier. Yes, she's helped birth foals before, but not on her own. And not with said horse's over-protective pseudo-father fretting at every turn.

"Relax, Bass, she'll be fine," Miles insists.

"How do you know?" Bass insists, turning sharply on his heel. "She might… anything might happen! I mean… babies are complicated!"

"Women are complicated," Jeremy mutters. "Are you sure I have to be here?"

"Yes, you have to be here," Ollie says, patting him on the shoulder. "You don't get to leave me with these two broody maniacs and their ginormous pregnant horse. Besides, I said you could stay at the head end, so you'll be fine. And Bass, seriously, take a chill pill. You'll make her worse if she starts picking up on how wound up you are."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do? It's not like I can tell her to relax and do her breathing!" Bass wails. "Miles… if my baby is in pain I am so going to kick your ass tonight."

"…can I be more drunk?" Jeremy asks, and then jumps a mile at the whickering coming from the pregnant mare. Her tail starts to flag and she paces restlessly. "Oh shit!"

"Bass, you're going to spend tonight going wibbly-eyed over a tiny baby horse," Miles insists, dryly, and looking thoroughly unconcerned by the threat. "So don't pretend you're not excited really."

"That's normal, that's normal," Ollie reassures Jeremy, wishing at least one of them would calm the fuck down. Well. Technically Miles is calm, but he's not helping all the same.

"You are so not getting any tonight either way," Bass insists. He starts stroking Lambo's flank and doesn't even object when she bites at his hair. "Is there anything… anything… I can do?"

Lambo drops her head and whickers again, shuddering. It's clear she's about to give birth, and Bass looks terrified. Although not as pale as Jeremy, who is now walking backwards as far away as possible.

"Keep doing that," Ollie tells him, moving down to the business end and waving Miles in closer, so he can help when he's needed. "Keep her calm. It will make this easier for her. Jeremy… Jeremy, just breathe. It's fine."

Oh, this is ridiculous.

Bass strokes his horse soothingly, telling her it will be okay. Telling her it will be fine. The nasty rapist Ferrari won't hurt her again and he forgives her. Lambo shudders under his hands, pawing at the ground and starting to strain. Then… then she's doing it. It's easier than a human birth, but she still seems to be struggling a little. Bass grabs her neck and holds on, whispering in her ear.

Jeremy looks like he might faint.

And all of a sudden, there's a lot of bloodied foal rapidly becoming visible. Ollie waves at Miles to help, and together they support the young horse through the last contractions, guiding it out and – finally – to the ground, in a tangle of thin limbs and shaky breathing.

"Congratulations," Ollie says, wiping her hands on the rough overshirt she's wearing. "It's a boy."

"A boy!" Bass says, gleefully rubbing between Lambo's ears. "Did you hear? We've had a boy! Oh I'm so proud of you…" He hugs her around the neck, then stands back to let her turn and fuss over the bundle of shaking legs on the floor. "Come on… aren't you going to look at him?"

This takes Ollie a little by surprise. At this point… Lamborghini _should_ be fussing over the foal. Licking him, starting to bond with him. But she isn't moving.

"Huh…" Ollie mutters. "That's not right… Come on, girl? Come see little Subaru…"

Bass peers over at the quietly bleating mess, and then at Ollie. "…what… what's wrong?" He rubs Lambo's neck. "Come on… come on girl… Subaru needs you, sweetheart. I know you can do it. I know you want to see your little boy…"

Lambo paws the ground again, dropping her head in obvious distress. Her ears go back and she starts to push again. "Ollie…? Ollie what's going on?!"

"Oh fuck," Ollie breathes. "I did wonder, 'cause she was so big… I…" She stares round at Bass, fully aware her next words are going to get quite a reaction. "Brace yourself. She's having twins."

" _WHAT?!_ " Bass glares at Miles. "No sex for a WEEK!"

In the corner there's a thunk. Jeremy has, apparently, passed out.

With a whinny, Lambo pushes again and with a little more difficulty she pushes out a smaller ball of legs, hooves and fur.

"…Oh, for the love of _fuck_ ," Ollie exclaims. "Miles, help. Now." Sometimes clear and concise orders are the best way to go.

And, together, she and Miles guide out the second foal. It's definitely, noticeably smaller than the first – and, unlike the first, it doesn't seem to be breathing properly.

A wave of panic hits Ollie, though she hides it with remarkable speed. "Miles," she says, "start rubbing its chest, quick. We need to get it breathing."

Miles immediately drops down onto his knees besides the smaller foal, rubbing it vigorously. "Come on, you," he says to it. "Your brother's waiting for you."

Which freaks Bass the fuck out. "WHAT? Ollie… WHAT?!" He clutches to Lambo, even as she tries to turn and nose first at Subaru, then at the foal Miles is fussing over. "Ollie! Ollie what is going on? What's wrong? Oh fuck…"

"Oh no you don't," Miles hisses, rubbing harder and slapping the poor creature on its chest a few times. "Oh no you…"

And all of a sudden, the second foal lets out a pathetic little noise, and starts to breathe on its own.

"Oh, thank goodness," Ollie whispers, the relief hitting in a fresh wave, and pats Miles on the shoulder. "Nice one," she adds, shakily. And then, finally, she dares look up at Bass. "Congratulations again. It's another boy."

Bass drops to his knees between the two, and touches a leg on each of them, eyes brimming. "They're beautiful…"

Lambo seems to agree, for she starts nuzzling one then the other, encouraging the tiny little things to try and stand. They nose at her in return.

"What are we going to call the other one?" Bass asks Miles.

Miles can't help a grin, now. "…Mustang," he says, the name coming to him all at once. "Subaru and Mustang."

"Mustang… that works."

The two brothers start to try and get up, wobbling and leaning against one another. Bass sits back and presses into Miles' side, beaming with relief at the pair of them. They look very much like their mother, except Subaru has darker socks around his ankles and Mustang's dorsal stripe is much more pronounced.

Ollie shakes her head at the pair of them, getting up and cleaning her hands off on her overshirt again before heading over to where Jeremy is still sprawled in a heap. "Hey," she says, softly, rubbing his shoulder. "It's safe now."

Jeremy mutters and flails drunkenly at Ollie, trying to bat her off. "'Mno…"

"Jeremy," Ollie says, a little more insistently. "Come see the nice horse babies…"

This whole night has just been surreal. But then, in the midst of a growing war, after two long years of darkness… a little hope is a wonderful thing.

***

**Author's Note:**

>  **Dramatis Personae**  
>  (but not including very minor characters and incidentals, or we'd be here all night!)
> 
> **Davechicken:**
> 
> Sebastian Monroe  
> Jeremy Baker  
> Danny Matheson  
> Aaron Pittman  
> Maggie Foster  
> Julia Neville  
> Jason Neville  
> Anthony O'Donnell
> 
> **Shadow Side:**
> 
> Miles Matheson  
> Ollie Fischer  
> Ben Matheson  
> Tom Neville  
> Charlie Matheson  
> John Faber  
> Liam Calder


End file.
